Award-winning author of Regency romance, contemporary romantic comedy, novellas. Also serials and short stories for women's magazines, poems for the small press, and anything else that might sell.
Anyone want a Christmas poem? I wrote this a considerable number of years ago when the kids were at primary school. Home-made Nativities just hit the heart, don't they?
Angel Hems by Jan Jones
Today the sky is dark, clouds lie in wait I’m sewing tinsel for an angel hem The first drops hit me as I reach the gate
At school and wonder why it’s always them Who’ve lost their gloves and bags and by the way We should have had our stuff - I try to stem
The flood of petty grievance of their day And shield them from the rain slant-driving down As Mary shielded Jesus in the hay
Did she know then that he would wear a crown Not like my son’s, all glitter and gold paint As fits a King, but thorns and greeny-brown?
She must have known, but put aside the taint Of things to come by calling him a boy Like any other. Oh no, not a saint -
Just Jesus bringing visitors and joy Just Jesus asking questions to make sense Just Jesus with a woolly lamb his toy.
To make the barn they’ve borrowed someone’s fence My daughter’s tinsel snags the cardboard stall .... the Natal magic smooths away pretence
Small wonder that He railed against the call From Christmas, Easter is no time at all.
(By the way, there's a special term for the form of this poem. I can't remember what it is for the moment, but I'll look it up and post later. Unless anyone else gets in first, of course!)
Excellent! The RNA party season has started already!
The longlist for the Romantic Novel of the Year 2008 has been announced. Shame there aren't more of my pals on it (partisan, moi?), but I do spy my chum Kate Lace in her debut outing in her new persona (she's more generally known as Catherine Jones, or "mine's a large red, please").
Next will be the Romance Prize (category romance) shortlist, some time in the New Year. And then the RNotY shortlist announcement in mid-January.
And then the Awards Lunch! I'm salivating at the very thought. .
Nope. I know I've got this lot to deal with, but there's only one chapter to go until I've finished the first draft, so nothing Christmassy is being done until I've got the hero and heroine to their happy-ever-after.
And then I'll have all that writing, posting, buying, wrapping, stirring, decorating time to revolve in my head how the heck I'm going to unpick the wretched thing to make it into the book it's supposed to be. .
Never, repeat never, forget to take your reading glasses with you to the library when you want to do some research. I have just written an entire strand of of my only-two-chapters-to-go-until-I-reach-the-end Regency based on the assumption that Lady Jersey owned racehorses.
Wrong. The tiny black abbreviation Ld stands for Lord not Lady.
LORD Jersey owned racehorses. Lord Jersey who wouldn't in a million years have inveigled my hero into investigating a tiny matter of race-fixing.
No prizes at all for what I'm thinking right now. .
From dogs to cats. Have I mentioned that Merlin got his name partly because he has always had a thing about caves? Well, whilst son was watching this encounter in the back garden this morning... (look closely under the magnolia tree)
someone snuck into the backpack he takes to work...
Heart in mouth and fingers crossed today for my friend who had her car stolen in Cambridge yesterday - with her two liver-and-white springer spaniels in the back.
They were in a dog cage, so hopefully whoever stole the car will have just hoisted the cage out and left it somewhere obvious for a decent human being to report.
As you can imagine, my friend is torn between hope and despair every time the phone rings.
It's not just me, is it? I mean, everybody gets days when it's grey and cold and you can't find the right present and you'd forgotten this was the day the library closes early and someone else put the last Brussels paté in their trolley just as you reached for it, don't they?
So everybody mutters "s*d the calories" to themself and comes home with a toffee pecan lattice, right?
Not quite sure how it got to be hallowe'en so soon, but here are stage-by-stage picsof last year's pumpkin (designed by son, hacked by me). The fiddly eye cut-outs were a pain!
This year I only gave him the pumpkin five minutes before he left for work, so surgery should be a little easier.
Ahhh. Butter wouldn't melt, would it? And I suppose they thought they were being very restrained, leaving it until quarter past seven this morning to point out to me that I hadn't yet fed them.
They weren't to know that British Summer Time finished last night so all the clocks in the house said quarter past six... .
It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it. Yes, one of today's bits of business is to choose the menu for the Romantic Novelists' Association Winter Party.
The IMechE at One Birdcage Walk does splendid roving canapés (so christened because the waiters wander around with trays of nibbles which hopefully won't have disappeared by the time they get to you), so narrowing it down to five hot and five cold takes some doing.
Let's see... Chilled spears of asparagus and hollandaise shots --- tick Cocktail Cumberland sausages with cheesy mashed potato dip --- tick Crispy tempura vegetables with plum sauce --- tick . . . . . . . . . .
I should go and talk amongst yourselves if I were you. I may be some time. .
I'm making bread today (son and I get through a LOT of bread), so thought I would post a poem I wrote ages ago. It came out of a writing challenge to describe your favourite food. I think I was supposed to come up with something lyrical and beautiful (probably along the lines of Julie Cohen's terrific sex-and-chocolate workshop), but being on the contrary side and feeling somewhat hassled at the time, I produced this instead.
It, er, didn't win - but the bread tasted good.
No Mystery by Jan Jones
There’s no mystery to bread ... provided you remember to get the bowl out the night before ... to remind you when you stumble eyes half-closed into your ... early morning kitchen to Get out the frozen yeast Defrost for half an hour ... or as long as it takes to force your body awake with that ... first shock of coffee, get the children up and dressed, ... put the washing on, make the packed lunches... Meanwhile rub the butter into the flour ... I made the coffee with just hot water and milk once - I ... still remember the surprise that I could actually ... taste the difference that time in the morning Add some salt and make a well in the middle Add sugar to the yeast then pour on Two-thirds cold water, one third boiling ... using the rest for a second cup of gulped-down, searing coffee Mix and pour into the flour well Sprinkle with flour Cover with a tea towel and leave to froth ... meanwhile turning off the Nintendo, cramming feet into shoes, ... plaiting hair, wiping faces, finding bags... Knead together well ... when you get back from school after two false starts. Why ... do they always remember things thirty seconds out of the door ... and not the night before despite you asking? And leave to rise in a warm place ... like money for the cake stall and oh, yes, the lace is broken on ... one of my trainers and I need it today, Mum, and - Knock back ... when you get home from the supermarket ... weary in body and wallet Divide into two oiled tins Leave to rise again ... while you make a cup of tea this time, unpack the shopping, ... get the washing out of the machine, hang it up... Then cook for twenty-eight minutes in a hot oven.
No, the only mystery to bread is what shops do to make it So devoid of life.
It wasn't going to be. it was supposed to be an admin day. The trouble is that one of the things on the admin list is to update my website - and the instructions on how to do that are scribbled on a piece of paper towards the bottom of the pile on my desk. And as I was brought up never to waste anything, all my pieces of paper have lots of different things scribbled on them.
So I do know where the instructions are, I just don't know where they are.
..... looks at desk unenthusiastically .....
Of course, I could simply wait for my son to return from his place of employment tonight...
The deed was done. All her worldly possessions (actually not all of them, only the ones cool enough for student life) were packed into two cars and at the end of September her brother and I drove her to Warwick.
All the way up I was thinking that I simply couldn't believe I was taking my little girl to University. Where had the years gone?
Her brother fixed up her computer and checked the Internet was working. I bought her what might be her last square meal until Christmas. We drove home. Communication was restarted by email. Maternal fears were allayed by the friends she'd made, the societies she'd joined, that fact that she'd discovered the local Tesco.
Then I get an email: "I'm thinking of coming home this weekend." "Why?" I replied, distraught all over again. "I thought you were having a whale of a time?" "Oh I am! It's fantastic! I'm loving it!" "Then why do you want to come home?" "Um, the laundrette in our block isn't working and I'm running out of socks..."
Every time I watch the Last Night of the Proms, I am transported back to 1976 or so when for three years I worked at the Royal School of Mines and my tiny slip of an office window looked out over the queue for the promenade concerts.
That was a particularly long, hot summer, so here, in homage, is a slice of memory.
(Photo courtesy of the BBC)
Promenade Summer by Jan Jones
That summer When boys came up to my room to sit on my bed and Gulp cold orange straight from the box When coruscating music ran around the vaulted stone gallery And seeped into my Indian cotton skirt as I sat cross-legged Or lay full length on the wide empty floor to listen When the heat in the park hit ninety and my stifling Third-floor bedsit was visited by lads whose grants had run out Or whose girls had got better degrees than they had And who loved me because I was there and it was the thing to do That summer
That summer When I would refill my fridge daily with two quarts of orange And a four-pack of lager When I’d go to bed at two and wake every morning at six When I was high on London and patched its tatters Into a flame and russet headband When I shed my skin eagerly and quickly and thought I had nothing to learn
I went alone once to listen. Queued alone Without my girlfriends to tell me which music I would enjoy Paid twenty pence extra and slipped with guilty pleasure Into a promenade large with sharing Immediate with excitement I rode a boy out of the hall Made love to him in the park and lost him Glad really to be alone That summer
The Large Print edition of Stage by Stage has just been published by Magna. Priced at £19.99, it is aimed mostly at libraries. As you can see, the cover is quite different to the original, but it does say, very definitely, that this is a romance set against a theatrical background.
One of these days I'll be sufficiently beforehand with the world to blog about things as they happen rather than as they were some time ago. The Romantic Novelists' Association Summer Party 2007 was its usual glittering self with excellent company, rather nice wine and pretty good nibbles. I'm so glad the chef at One Birdcage Walk decided to retain the tiny sausages with cheesy mash as one of the canapé options this year. He also retained the asparagus spears in Hollandaise sauce - sadly they all disappeared en route between the serving door and me. Never mind, enough of the tempura vegetables with chilli dipping sauce made it past the crowd to mollify me. Part of the pleasure of these parties is the opportunity to catch up with friends, such as lovely Caroline ... and equally lovely Kate (seen here on the right chatting to Jenny Haddon).
The highlight of the evening was the announcement of this year's RNA NWS winner. Dr David Hessayon sponsors this every year in memory of his late wife Joan (and gives us all a glass of fizz to boot!). I have an extremely soft spot for this award since I won it myself with Stage by Stage in 2005, so felt it entirely appropriate that Phillipa Ashley should greet her own win this year by shedding a few tears. I was with you all the way, Phillipa!
Left - Dave Hessayon. Right - Phillipa and her husband John, together with her book, Decent Exposure, and the trophy.
Seems a shame evenings like this can't go on for ever!
Posting shamefully late about this (excuse being that I've been working on the RNA Conference programme instead), but it was a lovely do at the Savoy to celebrate this year's Romantic Novel of the Year Award and the RNA Romance Prize for short romantic fiction. The advantage of being the one with the camera is that I have nice shots of other people and none of me. Above is Rosie Thomas just after Dame Tanni Grey-Thompson announced her novel Iris and Rubyas the winner of the Romantic Novel of the Year Award for 2007, and (right) Dame Tanni and Rosie with her crystal star.
Next up was the Romance Prize for short romantic fiction. Jean Chapman, a previous chairman of the Romantic Novelists' Association announced the winner as Nell Dixon, with Marrying Max, published by the People's Friend Story Collection. There was a short pause at this point during which various kind friends tried to persuade Nell that she wasn't hearing things and that she really had won.
All in all, it was a splendid luncheon with delicious food, some seriously nice outfits (see Jenny Haddon's to-die-for lace, right), and congenial companions.
On my table we had Jessica Hart, last year's Romance Prize winner, also Natasha Oakley and Fiona Loakes.
Natasha was one of the 2007 short-listed authors and Fiona is the current holder of the Joan Hessayonaward (a very distinguished body of people) And then, once all the food had been eaten and the drink had been, er, drunk, my friends and I ambled round the corner to the Coal Hole.
As I said, a very good day.
(Pictured are Judy Astley, Katie Fforde, Gilli Allan, Bernardine Kennedy, Lesley Cookman and Jenny Harper)
Saturday, 21 April 2007
Had a lovely day on Monday 16th April when I travelled up to sunny Wigan to the launch of the NW Libraries Time to Read initiative featuring romantic fiction. Entitled Pure Passion, it will run in all 22 libraries of the partnership for the next year.
In the Atrium of Wigan Town Hall, we were served 'Pure Passion' cocktails (ribena and sparkling wine - very pretty) and I got a chance to catch up with lots of Romantic Novelists' Association pals, including Jenny Haddon, Melinda Hammond, Roger Sanderson, Penny Jordan, Trisha Ashley, June Francis, Eileen Ramsay and Angela Proctor.
Librarian-in-charge Jane Mathieson explained the scheme and thanked the RNA for their help in drawing up a shortlist of excellent modern romantic reading. Jenny Haddon (centre in this photo; RNA chairman) then spoke about the history of romantic fiction and the wide choice available to today's lucky readers of the genre.
She was followed by two writers whose books are on the suggested Pure Passion reading list: Erica James (right; current Romantic Novel of the Year holder with Gardens of Delight), and Linda Gillard (left) with Emotional Geology published by the lovely Transita. Both talked about their writing and read a short excerpt from their own book.
Then it was time to network with the gathered librarians, finish off the cakes and fruit platter that had been provided by the Time to Read team, and wend our way home.
