All writers have a muse and I think they are all hard task masters. My muses (and there are more than one and they do gang up on me!) tend to make me write things I think I shouldn’t. I tried to steer them in other directions and they marched off and refused to talk to me until I went back and wrote what I was given. When I do this, invariably the answer to why a character or a plot turn needed to be a certain way becomes apparent. I’ve now come to a point where I slide my mental head shaking aside and push forward to see where we land.
The consequence of all of that muse following is that I find myself writing in a somewhat less defined landscape of romance than I had intended. I write what would be best termed Victorian historical that has a somewhat gothic eroticism or perhaps borderline dark romanticism (I’m way to romantic and hopeful to fall fully in either category). Hopelessly Devoted 2 Books reviewed my first book, The Veiled Heart, released in July this year saying “This story is very unlike anything else on the market at the moment! Yes, it’s certainly erotic, and yes, it’s a historical romance…but it’s so much more than either of those things!”
I think it’s the Victorianism which lends itself to presenting a more troubled character and different strata’s of society. It’s a time when we really started to build the foundation of our modern society, issues back then reflect our current issues and the mass of sexuality rippling under the surface of a corseted façade is a wonderful landscape to explore the social and value constructs we still carry.
Aside from the churning society, the gothic curiosities and eroticism, The Veiled Heart is a deep, rich story of true love. I think it’s a very romantic read. I have a snippet below to give you a feel for it. Also if you’re interested in staying in touch about my next release called The Bound Heart, a book about the unravelling of a Victorian bookbinder come shibari rope master, sign up for my newsletter below.
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Snippet from the beginning of The Veiled Heart
Miriam couldn’t say how long it was before he lifted from her and tapped his cane on the cab roof.
She should move but she couldn’t even open her eyes; and really, how could anyone expect her to? The cab must be full of feathers. She’d clawed up angel wings in that white cloud of bliss and she was still floating back down to the bench. Back to a life that would now look entirely different.
Gentle hands worked to straighten her skirts. There was no impetus to move. The firm but gentle administrations, adjusting her skirt, stroking her arm, small murmurs, were melting her on the inside with the soft kindness of it all. Even out of courtesy. She wanted to say something, give something back.
“Thank you; that was most enlightening.” Heat immediately rushed up her face at the absurd whisper.
Idiot; she was keeping her eyes closed, perhaps for the rest of her life.