Virginia Taylor - Author

During the time I stopped  writing I painted and designed theatre sets with a renowned set designer who taught me as much as he could. One thing leads to another. The better the sets we designed, the more choices we had as to the shows with which we wanted to be associated. This meant we chose the best directors who had access to the best costumers and make-up artists. 

Success breeds success. For a time my design partner and I couldn’t fail even if we tried, but we didn’t try to fail. We worked hard to produce the best possible. We designed award-winning sets. We designed the most spectacular set, costumes, and hairstyles for the most spectacular failure ever. We designed ingenious sets. Our sets attracted ever-larger audiences for sold-out performances, and we attracted the best stage crews and the best production managers who also wanted to wallow in success. And then my design partner died.

I couldn’t go on alone, because alone I was less than half the team. Although I could paint or design alone, I couldn’t handle the flats alone. The flats (backgrounds) are wooden frames up to 12’ high and 6’ wide. My arms don’t span the width. He could fling around the flats. I could barely drag one and then it would take me forever to set it up to paint.

Knowing I couldn’t do another complicated set alone, I thought I could manage a box set for a director I liked, who was working for a theatre company that always had expensive, but bad sets. I made everything on the set except for the fire fender which my same willing helper cut to my design, and I worked every day under a tin roof in the heat of 40degC summer. This was my thriftiest set. I only bought curtain material and a few brackets to hold the rods. The whole thing cost $39. I painted every picture on the set and I borrowed furniture. I designed the sofa and my helper made the frame which I upholstered. It turned out sturdy enough to be used in a few more productions. All that was required of anyone but me was that the set builders put the flats together at the top. As you can see, they were not interested in working under the direction of a woman.

The reviewer thought I had the eras wrong because Washington Square was set in Victorian times. The set, however, is Regency because the heroine’s mother had the room designed when she was young. This is too hard for a reviewer to understand, although it was mentioned in the script. 

I had the same man-help problem for my last set, below.

In these days of instant self-gratification, I could have self-published or let my historical romances be published by one of the thousands of lurking epublishers. The terms were good: 40% of sales. The covers were abysmal. I’m a cover-girl, that is, one who judges publishers by their covers. So, with minimal faith in myself I waited, unsold, willing to remain that way unless I could sell to a good, established publisher.

Do other authors keep their rejection letters? I didn’t keep any for my contemporary romances, mainly because I didn’t have any intention of being the author of contemporary romances – after I had flunked with three of them. However, I kept the rejections for my historical romances.

In the past but never forgotten, I had a US agent. He sent my stories off helter skelter, peppering many and various US publishers with my words. Lovely man. As he was kind enough to forward my rejections to me, I kept them. The sad part is that I gave all my old manuscripts generically ghastly names like This Above All, All There Is, Daisy’s Way, Face Value, The Price of Pride, something else I can’t remember, and If Only. If only I knew which historical that was, or any of the others, for that matter, because I changed all the names years ago to the name of the heroine, so that I knew which was which.

When reading through my old rejections, I found a 1997 rejection from St Martin’s Press for If Only: I truly enjoyed reading this historical novel. The premise is engaging and the writing is superb. Ultimately, though, the feeling here is that a romance set in Australia would be too difficult to market and sell. Also, since the author lives in Australia, publicity and appearances would be unlikely. Our romance program is very much driven by local publicity and appearances by the author . . . etc.

That’s one of the nicer rejections, but most were in a similar vein for the next few years, which is why I gave up writing in 2004.

I’m an Australian, my stories are set in Australia, but none of the same novels that had rational marketing rejections from the US, were considered by Australian publishing houses. I could have tried England with changed settings but at that stage I could only see my stories set in their rightful place.

Then, in 2011, because the US RWA chapters were accepting competition entries via email and money via Paypal, I had an equal chance to have my writing presented to editors as final judges. First I had to make it to the finals, not so easy in my first few comps.

A judge in a Canadian competition told me she had to score Ella low because I set the story in Australia and seriously, who is interested in sheep? Sigh. Ella is no more about sheep than westerns are about goats. Other than her, most judges didn’t mind my Australian setting but some didn’t like my stories. Some didn’t like my writing. A judge kindly told me how to write because I clearly didn’t know. She changed my showing to telling and explained that the swing of a crinoline was a disembodied action, sympathising with me because I was clearly a newbie. That was a shame, because I had good scores from the two published judges I had been allotted and might have finalled in that comp but for her – but I had been a judge for years before I was an entrant and made some poor judgements too before I knew any better. Fair’s fair.

A rejection from Harlequin told me that I could write for them if I would consider less page time for my secondary stories and more exposition – which is head ‘splaining. But no, I couldn't consider those changes.

By the time I had finalled in enough comps to make the top three in the Divas’ awards, I had enough confidence to start submitting to editors without an agent. Because I had stopped reading romance long before, I had no idea which of the many publishers were which. So, judging books (publishers) by their covers I began submitting historicals to the ‘name’ publishers. Nothing. No one could take a risk on an Australian setting.

In the meantime, I reworked a contemporary suspense, Losing Patients, and reset it in the US, which was a major job because of the different hospital routines. I reset Starling in England in the Regency era after a request from an editor. Then, because Starling was so wrong in Regency, I changed the story back to Victorian. Then back to Australia where the story ought to be. The research to do those foreign exchanges was horrendous.

Then a chapter mate, Claire Baxter, sold a story to an Australian publisher, Random Romance. They wanted novellas. I’m not capable of writing a story shorter than 60,000 words but I gave Dr No Commitment a try anyway. Random Romance made an offer and published my 60,000 word novella. In the meantime I had rejected an offer for Losing Patients set in the US.

The rest is history. Random Romance took Losing Patients, which I set back in Australia, and Kensington made an offer for Starling, set in Australia. In the meantime I had two offers for Ella, both Australian, but I wanted my historicals with the same publisher if possible. Kensington offered for Ella and Charlotte too.

Am I glad I didn’t self-publish or give up on Australian settings? You betcha.

Perhaps summer brings out the best in people, not that I see the worst in people very often. Given the opportunity, most people are good and I give people plenty of opportunity to be good to me.

I’m a Capricorn and, typical of my birth sign, I’m thrifty. Every week, just after dawn I drive off to the Central Market in Adelaide. I can buy all the food I need there for the week. Some people speak glowingly of the vibe of the market, but for me the vibe comes from the products, fresh vegetables, meat, fish, nuts, cakes, smallgoods, cheeses, breads, or the ancillary goods like shoes, plants, jewellers, plastic rubbishy things, clothes, neck massages, etc.

Today I woke up with a headache and as I was driving into the city, I shifted into the left lane to turn, and missed a cyclist by centimetres. I’m terrified of cyclists. They manage to ride in the dead-space between the rear vision mirror and the side vision mirror and then suddenly loom out of the traffic to frighten the life out of sensitive souls like me. This one was in the wrong, but I didn’t feel any better knowing I could have killed him. So, my head throbbed even while I was wandering up and down the aisles of the most calming place I know.

While I was buying a packet of fettuccine my thoughts suddenly disappeared. The trader was standing there, waiting, and I broke out in a cold sweat. My head started spinning. I gave him a charming smile (that’s my terrified smile) and said, “I’m sorry. I think I’m having a delayed panic attack and I don’t know what I’m doing.” He said, “Don’t worry. I often have panic attacks myself but not usually when I’m buying pasta.”

That was a good hint from him about what I was doing and so I looked in my purse but couldn’t focus. He apparently could see I was in trouble because he kept talking to me in a calm voice and although I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying, my ‘attack’ responded to his tone and we ended up discussing sage and butter sauce, although at the time I was panicked and shaking. When I’d paid for and collected my pasta, I said, “Thank you so much. You got me through that without too much drama.” He’d been trying to encourage me to sit and wait but somehow I couldn’t. I walked off not even embarrassed because I still felt weird.

I hadn’t moved too far away before he was there beside me. He held out a little pink rabbit sweet and said to eat it because I probably needed sugar. He’d gone to a nearby stall and bought it for me!

With an astonished, slightly misty smile, I went to the meat stall where the boss started talking to me about, of all things, gardening, and when I went back to the smallgoods stall, the trader there said, “So, what did we forget?” we meaning me, because I’d only been there about ten minutes before. He thought it was a great joke, which also cheered me up because that meant he remembered me (and he served me before people he didn’t remember). That place is so busy you could buy from the same trader week after week for a year and they still wouldn’t recognise you.

Finally, with everything on my list bought, I walk-alated up to the car park, stood in front of the pay station, looking in my purse for the right change for the machine. Two men walked up behind me and I stepped back, not because I step back for men, but to save being elbowed out of the way. Previous occasions have taught me that when men see women getting money out of a purse, they take that as an invitation to shove their ticket into the machine and then fossick around in four or five pockets searching for change, while the woman who has found the right money long before, waits. I like to have my money in my hand and tap my foot politely while they sweat out their search. I think I’m helping womankind and that in future they’ll be more mannerly.

These two men stood back, smiled, and let me put my ticket and money in first. Either they’d come across me before and didn’t want to look rude, or they’d also decided to show the best of themselves.

Or, I’d just given two more people the opportunity to be good to me.

So, I’ve changed my mind. I think I now go to the market not only for the glorious fresh produce but also for the amazing, friendly, caring vibe. Try getting the same in the local supermarket. There, they even expect you to pack and check yourself out.

The Adelaide Central Market – Shop Here: We’re Friendly and Fantastic. 

Xmas in Australia comes at the wrong time of the year. We have a short winter, an equally short spring, and whoosh summer elbows through while we’re still carrying a bit of winter weight. On the other side of the world, People can keep their winter bodies and eat their Xmas food because they won’t be swimming, water skiing, yachting, or hiking out for long bush picnics, half naked. They’ll be sitting by the fire drinking eggnog all rugged up in weight-hiding clothes and eating I don’t know what. If they live in N. America, really I don’t know what.

Last week I bought a bracelet that measures how many calories I work off if I log my food intake onto my computer. The bracelet tracks my exercise. This should be easy for anyone, right? Wrong. It would only be easy for people who live in the US. The rest of us have to work at this because the loggable foods are US foods which, although people who live in the US might assume everyone else eats, are totally obscure to the rest of the English speaking world. I could be exaggerating.

The first day I logged on porridge for breakfast. I could choose between about 20 of them with enormous calorie counts and strange ingredients. In porridge? What to choose, what to choose?

I ended up accepting 350 calories for the one that sounded closest to real porridge. Then I had to add rhubarb, which I do to my porridge. A cup! I couldn’t eat a cup of rhubarb and live to see my next belch. So I ended up with a 600 calorie breakfast that I would have taken all week to eat. (As it turned out, that much does.)

Lunch. In the US people don’t appear to eat bread. I found bready things with weird additives but I make my own bread - plain wholemeal. Once I added salad to my ham, I had a sandwich worth 400 cals. !

Dinner. A chicken sausage. I never found a plain chicken sausage and the closest was something with apple and maple syrup. I wouldn’t put either of those tastes with chicken and it sounded nauseating but that was the only chicken sausage that didn’t have ridiculously calorific additives. Eventually, I swapped that on the log for a chicken breast, and got the calorie count down to something I could imagine might be equal to a chicken sausage. I ate baked beans with the sausage and I make my own baked beans in a hidden vegetable sauce, white beans with tomato, celery, onion, carrot, zucchini, red capsicum, mustard, treacle, herbs. It’s a healthy meal and the calories are few. I think I had to accept a cup of that as 350 cals, though I thought no way.

Overnight I decided that I should have logged oats instead of porridge. Wooppee. 30 cals. Rhubarb. I saw sliced rhubarb hidden among various brand-name rhubarb, or hotel chain rhubarb? I haven’t worked that out yet. I tried logging in my own measurements, which worked, and I got 30 cals for ¼ cup of sliced rhubarb. I finally found two slices of wholemeal bread among 20 or thirty calorific breads I’ve never heard of, so they weren’t sour dough, freeka, or rye. I haven’t discovered a plain sausage but I won’t eat another in the next month anyway. However, I managed to substitute grams or slices for oz (whatever that is other than Oz (Australia).

The day before, I logged my sandwich salad as one serve for 135 calories because every other salad had even more calories. A salad? Today I counted out the ingredients I used. Six cals. Yup. Six. Last night I did the same with the salad I had with my piece of fresh salmon. 14 cals. It’s in the photo. I couldn’t find fresh salmon on the log so I chose the brand name with the least calories. Why would no fresh salmon be on a list for people who have decided to be healthy?

I can’t understand why the inventors of a product (the bracelet) that is clearly sold all over the world would assume their customers would eat a diet of processed foods. Nowhere on the list did I find a plain pork chop. I had to have one with a brand name. If I had ever eaten more calories than the bracelet said I should consume to lose my extra weight, I would use my calorie book to find the right counts, but while I’m not having a problem, except dropped jaw when I read the processed food lists, it doesn’t matter.

So far I’ve lost weight from my hands.

Daily I burn about 2000 cals, walk 8 kms, and eat 1000cals.

Next week I hope to have smaller feet.