Virginia Taylor - Author

Recently I've been reading historical romances. Since I write HR, perhaps I should read the genre, but I didn't want my writing influenced by the words or style of others. Reading one after the other, after the other, was not a good idea. 

Incomplete sentences do this to me. I've just finished a short HR. I couldn't have managed. Anything longer. Not when even the most ordinary statements. Seemed to be so important. That they were picked out this way. With a period. No verb.

Then there's the lone sentence.

Apparently, sitting a single sentence in the middle of white space makes the statement more important.

Unless the statement is important, the character from whose head issued the thought seems like a bore; self important, in other words. Sometimes these important single sentences are also partial sentences. I get a headache after a series of partial sentences and Very Important Statements.

Which leads me to the done-to-death actions to depict certain emotions. I have to say when I constantly read the same phrases over and over again in books, it makes my knuckles turn white. I lied. I can't ever make my knuckles turn white no matter how hard I clench my fists because bone is yellow. I have longed to write in a book, she clenched her fists until her knuckles turned yellow, but I can't because it would make me laugh. And of course. It would edited out.

Similarly I worry about heroines who lift their chins a notch. Too noisy. Click. Click. Oh, that's two. It should be only A notch. Click.

Back in the days when RWA (US) first discovered that writers could talk to each other via the internet, we had a single list for all, published and unpublished. This was fantastic for newbies like me, because I learnt 'the craft' from people who would have been my idols if I knew who they were. I didn't initially, not being a romance reader, but I got to know who knew what, and what they would share. They were an incredibly generous lot and we were a small group in the beginning.

One time, the general discussion was about who thought what was annoying or strange in books. Being such a newbie, I had to be careful because I didn't know who wrote what, but one day I mentioned the word 'loins.' Apparently, in historical romances when men heated with lust, pain shot through their loins. I said, tactful as usual, that I kept imagining that they were trying to pass a kidney stone. "What?" was screeched at me from a Very Famous Author.

I said, "Speaking as nurse who worked in a renal unit for a spell, I associate loins with kidney pain rather than lust." Other nurses chimed in, agreeing about loins. We even found a dictionary definition and someone who could recall the word from bible stories wherein children sprang from loins. We were very intellectual in those days. Anyway, the VFA said she would never use loins again. I have felt guilty about mentioning the word for years.

However (a partial sentence to show the importance of this next statement). When I read my batch of historical romances, I didn't see loin a single time. Back in those days, we collectively decided that groin was the word that should be used. 

And, ta da. It now is!

This morning I opened the microwave to reheat a cup of coffee I'd made a couple of hours before, and inside I found a cup of tea I had reheated earlier. This is what I call a dilemma. So, I made a quick choice, took the tea out, and reheated the coffee.

In the meantime I saw the used coffee-grindings' cup was full and so I meandered outside to empty it on the camellias. The garden looked dry so I did a bit of watering, noticed the spinach and rhubarb needed picking, and on the way back into the house I spotted three paintbrushes I had left in the outdoor sink during my last bout of tangenting. I Cleaned Them. 

Satisfied, I went back to the computer only to discover that RWA Australia thinks I am an Emerging Author rather than an Established Author. In the past fifteen months I have sold five books to two reputable publishers. Two have been published, one in print and digital and the other only in digital. The next three will be print and digitally published in stages until January 2016. Now, I think this is pretty good and I have lately been smiling to myself thinking I'm finally an established author. 

Not so. My hard work over the past twenty years presumably threatens someone in the Romance Writers of Australia, and I need to learn my place. This is my new designation according to the association: An Emerging Author: "an author who has had a romantic/ romantic elements work commercially available or under contract for fewer than three years or an author who is consistently making the finals round in writing contests, is submitting and receiving requests from publishers or agents, or who has already secured an agent."

I have been doing all of the above for 20 years - writing, submitting, getting requests and offers from publishers, having an agent, and making the finals in competitions.

Now I'm not doing most of those because now I'm a Published Author. In whose head am I not an established author? I would be if I were a writer of anything but romance - after selling five manuscripts.

What I'm probably not going to be much longer is a member of RWAu but . . .  

The time had come to prepare a meal for tonight. I had planned a dish that needed slow cooking. As soon as I entered the kitchen I noticed the tea still sitting cold on the kitchen bench (counter top) but first I had vegetables to wash and chop, and then a kitchen to clean, and the washing to take out to the line, all of which led me back to the computer. 

I thought a cup of tea would be nice and I remembered the cold one - which isn't as disgusting as you might think because I don't use milk or sugar with my drinks - and opened the microwave. Hey presto, a cold cup of coffee sitting inside. This is what I call a dilemma.

I chose tea and this time I waited though I was sorely tempted to go outside and pick some peas. Nope. I didn't do it. I brought the tea back to the computer, I've finished it, and pretty soon I'll go and reheat the reheated coffee. Two drinks for the price of reheating three or four times. This is what I call a normal day.

Even so, an author is Published or Unpublished. No other category is needed no matter how many egos need bolstering. Emerging, phooeey. That's not what I call a dilemma. I'm an Established, Published Author.

I honestly did marry a man with a genius IQ. I honestly didn't know he was so smart because why would I? 

When I met him he was a perpetual student at Melbourne University. I was a pupil midwife at the Royal Women's Hospital and we met at the hospital ball - not love at first sight because I thought he was the local drunk. But this evolved after I accidentally met him a couple of days later. I discovered some years later that our next meeting wasn't accidental but I'm not talking about this right now. He proposed to me maybe month later and we married in six weeks.

So, he sped up his thesis and worked part time in a chocolate factory while I took the next six months to qualify as a midwife. During this time, he was offered a job as the assistant manager of a newly set up antimony mine in far north Queensland, to begin in the new year. I'm not talking about this now, either, because I'm still on track about him being a genius and me not realising this for about twenty years. 

At the end of the year, we duly toddled off to the outback. Interesting times. North Queensland is tropical. It either rains all the time or some of the time. We had a trickling little river near the mining camp, one you could walk across - until the rains came. Then this little river turned into a raging torrent, full of crocodiles - proved by a couple of locals who caught a big one near the camp. The mining camp was sited on one side of the river and the men worked on the other side.

Only one other woman lived in the mining camp. Elke was the wife of the engineer and she had two young sons. She was also a nurse and we got along well. Her little boys were a handful and one day she came screaming up to me with one clutched under her arm. He had blue powder around his mouth and coating his tongue. Clearly, he'd been snacking on the loo cleaner. We read the ingredients and got pretty nervous. We washed out his mouth, gave him a glass of milk, and thought we ought to call the flying doctor for extra reassurance. For reasons unremembered, my husband was on our side of the river that day, but the radio to contact the flying doctor was, of course, on the other side. The miners had taken the only boat over the other side too.

My husband decided he would swim across the crocodile infested flooded river to contact the doctor. He was 25. Nuff said. I watched him safely reach the other side and disappear up the makeshift road and then went back to watch the kid die. He didn't know he was going to die and he started playing happily, which was good, given his prognosis. In fact, he was so happy we gave him another glass of milk (which we decided, both being nurses, was the proper treatment) and we waited for at least half an hour for the feedback from the flying doctor. 

Eventually, when both the boys were playing with little their toy trucks in the dirt and we were ready for a nice cup of tea, we spotted an arm in the flooded river (attached to my husband, I'm glad to say) holding something strange aloft. He was very careful with with object, clearly trying not to get it wet. This meant he was swimming across a crocodile infested flooding river using one arm.

To my great relief, he reached the banks and crawled out, puffing. 'Water,' he said, indicating the bottle. 'The doctor said to give him water. If he tolerates it, give him milk.'

Seriously. He had brought the best water he could find, distilled in the lab across the river, to save the life of a child who was in the hands of two trained nurses. Brings tears to your eyes, doesn't it? I don't think I could have loved him more that day. So brave, so strong, so truly heroic.

But just not practical.

Rushing off to have coffee with my oldest friend, yes, she's both, and I'm waiting at the traffic lights. Probably six people standing there and a man with a dog.

The dog is big and black, young, and s/he, let's say he for the sake of typing, is wearing one of those guide-dog braces with a handle. The man is using a lead and the handle swings free. The lights are red.

The man steps onto the road and the dog steps onto the road. The man steps back and takes the dog in a large circle around him with the lead. The dog waits by his side. The man again steps onto the road and the dog again follows. The man circles the dog around him again. This happens three more times. Not a word said. Everyone is watching.

The man steps onto the road. The dog stays back. The man steps back. The man again steps onto the road. The dog stays back. The lights change and the ticking starts. The dog steps out onto the road. The man follows holding the handle.

Tears fill my eyes. I don't know why and I'm doing this as I type. The dog leads the man across the now safe road. The rest of us glance at each other and smile, all of us clearly effected.

It only took this one little thing with a dog and a trainer to make my day. How beautiful it was to see this working dog learn his first lesson about protecting a prospective 'client.'

Then, one day fairly soon after joining the SA romance writing group, and after wandering up and down the aisles of the local library, I discovered a hidden away section devoted to paperback books. I like paperbacks. They're not so heavy to carry home and they're easier on the wrists when you're reading in bed at night.

Mainly the paperbacks contained the identical stories as the hardbacks but I found one with a lurid cover depicting a half naked woman in a satin gown. I held my palm over the embarrassing cover when I checked the book out and I read the story that night. Over the next few weeks, I read more of the same. Gasp. Romance with sex, and mainly written by American authors who used enterprising heroines, and heroes who were the masters of the three-word sentence. I loved the 'Me Tarzan, you Jane' attitudes, especially when I had to suffer equality at home.

Equality is hard on a woman. F'rinstance, if we gave men equality we would have to let them have some of the household money. 'Nuff said. I could go on but I don't think equality would ever work for me.

Nor did the publishers I was submitting to - work for me, that is. I needed to try the US market because the books I read were published there. But first, I needed to join the RWA (US). And there I found an online group of amazingly generous writers.

Clive stands with Billy, the law clerk, on the sidelines while their workmates congratulate each other on a job well done.

Martha charges down the stairs into the reception area, grabs a bottle of beer, and makes her way into the centre of the schmoozing crowd. For all she cares, she could be alone. Her head tilts back and she glugs the beer as if she can't get enough, quickly enough, and she sways to the music, her eyes closed.

Clive says to Billy, "She's angry and she's dancing and she's so bad at both." He grins and pushes though the crowd. When he reaches her, with a strange little smile on his face, he leans towards her.

She smiles dreamily at him.

He whispers, "I love you."

My whole body sighs. To me that's another  'ahhhh' moment from my favourite TV show, BBC's Silk.

If only I could put more ahhhh moments  into my stories.

I duly attended the night classes, much to the relief of my teenage daughters. They preferred me out of the way. They would have liked me not to be at home all day either, or at least not after they came home from school. Failing that, they pretended I wasn't. 

We didn't have the only swimming pool in the neighbourhood but we did have many neighbours the same age. The two over the road were what these days would be termed 'yummy mummies.' Both were suddenly single and both had sons much younger than my daughters. They also had other friends even more glamorous, and on hot summer days all those available wandered over slicked with tanning oil and carrying bottles of champagne. What could I do? Well, I could whizz up strawberries in brandy to add a health element to the champagne. 

Teenage daughters think a mother in a bathing suit entertaining other mothers in bathing suits and drinking around a swimming pool are sooo embarrasing. They can't bring their friends home to this!  My number one daughter, budding olympic swimmer, walks through the back gate.

'Oh, you're all here - again. Like, people can't hear you for miles.' Stares at the champagne bucket, stares at the guests, stares at the pool. Gives a superior smile. 'I see Chrissy has been swimming.' Shoots Chrissy, who is orange-tanned, and wears an orange bikini - she could - a disgusted look. 'I can see your oil-slick on the water.'

I was a proud mother that day. Number one daughter had inherited the family sense of humour. Unfortunately she hadn't inherited the loveable grin or the timing required for the line. 

The silence followed her into the house. Chrissie looked at the water. Everyone else looked at the water. Sure enough, globules of tanning oil floated on the top. 'Sorry,' she said. 'Do you think if I swim around again my skin will blot it up?'

I should end this with something writerly. I didn't do too many more 'do you want to be a writer' classes. I was referred there to the South Australian Writer's Centre and from there to the Romance Writers of South Australia, which is now SARA, the South Australian Romance Authors.

 

Foiled in my plan to find a reader for my manuscript, I went on with my job as a wife and mother, preparing meals, coping with loads of washing, maybe even shopping, knowing I was alone and unloved, no more than a household slave, disrespected and despised. I bore the blow to my self esteem with sylent resignashion. 

After a few days of martyrdom because I couldn't get any feedback on my manuscript, (the words, not the commas,) I was surprised to hear that one of my husband's loyal staff members had insisted on getting together a focus group of HMB readers to compare a printout of my story with a free publication of a HMB medical romance.

The results came back. The readers enjoyed the HMB medical and they agreed wholeheartedly that my book was nothing like any they had yet read. They'd noted that I'd even managed to remove most of the medical details. As I had achieved my aim, I proudly sent off my first medical romance to HMB.

A lot of writers have said to me that it takes a long long time to get rejections. I can't remember that one taking very long. The answer was a masterpiece of tact and I've found that with editors. They say the nicest things when they say 'no.' This one said she would have liked me to read the books they sent because that was the sort of thing they wanted to publish. But please, try again.

Who would have expected either of those comments?

So I wrote the next in two weeks - and that was the 'whoosh,' instant rejection. I didn't know why, really, because I think I had some medical detail in the story. That day I signed up for an evening class called something like 'Do You Want to Be A Writer?'

I still did. As you can see above, I can't even spell silent resignation. (Yes, I know that's a groaner but I wanted to test if anyone saw it coming.)