Rhys on Cottages she has Known

RHYS BOWEN: I am nearing the first draft of my 14th Royal Spyness book, this one a spoof on REBECCA and set in Cornwall, a place I know well since we visit John's sister there every summer.
In this excerpt Georgie's friend Belinda has just inherited a property in Cornwall. They go to inspect and it turns out to be a cottage perched above the rocks. A rather primitive cottage.

As with all my books, I make my characters suffer my own experiences. In this case their suffering mirrors the time John and I were lent a farmhouse in France. We arrived and couldn't find a loo. We knew there must be a bathroom somewhere as the instructions told us how to work the shower. Eventually I went down to the cellar, across a dirt floor and down another flight of steps into...well, a cavern. Vaulted ceiling with ferns and mushrooms growing out of it. In one corner was a loo and in the middle a shower coming from the ceiling directly onto the stone floor. Needless to say neither of us went down there at night! Will Belinda and Georgie?  Read on:

Below was a stone basement with another large sink. The smell of fish still lingered. In one corner was a rusted tin bathtub, and in another a lavatory. Goodness knows where that drained to!

            “Not exactly much privacy,” I pointed out.

            “Can you imagine coming down here in the night?” Belinda sounded horrified. “Forget what I said about furniture being the number one priority. The first task is a proper bathroom.”

            “Are you sure this place is worth all the effort?” I asked. “it’s terribly remote. Would you really want to be here alone?”

            “I’m not sure,” she said. “I like the idea, but… Let’s sleep on it. I always say things look better in the morning.”

            “Do you think we should lock the front door, just in case?” I asked.

            “Who is possibly going to bother us out here?” Belinda said. “But maybe you’re right. We are far from any help, aren’t we?”

            She turned the big iron key in the latch. “Satisfied?” she asked.  I was.

After we had taken turns to use the facilities while the other stood guard at the top of the stairs we got undressed for bed. 

            “I don’t feel like turning off that oil lamp, if you don’t mind,” Belinda said. 

            “I agree. And wake me up if you need to go down to the loo.”

            “I rather wish I hadn’t had that pint of cider now,” Belinda said. 

            “Me too.”

            We climbed into the bed. The mattress was lumpy and the springs squeaked every time one of us moved.

            “I wouldn’t recommend this for a romantic hideaway,” I said, making Belinda laugh.

            “Oh crikey, can you imagine.”

            We both lay there laughing, as one does when very nervous.

            “I’m freezing. How about you?” Belinda asked.

            “I certainly am. The blankets feel damp, don’t they?”

            “I could put my cape over us. And your overcoat.”  She got up and started to drape them over the bedding.

            “Remind me whose mad idea this was,” I said.

            “At least you are not having to give tea parties and feel lonely and bored,” she said.

            “You’re quite right. It is an adventure. I must remind myself of that—especially if I have to get up in the night.”

            “Wake me and I’ll hold a candle for you,” Belinda said.

The extra layers started to warm us up. The wind had died down and all one could hear was the distant thump of waves on the rocks below. Gradually I drifted off to sleep. I awoke to pitch darkness. The oil in the lamp must have finally given out. I lay staring at nothing, wondering what might have woken me. Then I heard it again… the slightest sound. Was it the creak of a door? 

            Only the wind, I told myself. I knew from experience with Castle Rannoch that old houses were full of noises as they creaked and sighed and shifted. I turned over and tried to go back to sleep. I had almost drifted off when I felt the covers being peeled back and someone climbed into the bed beside me. The bedsprings creaked ominously. Silly Belinda, I thought. She’s been to the loo by herself. How considerate of her not to have woken me up.

Then I realized this person was getting into the bed on my left side. Belinda had been lying on my right. I reached out a hand and felt the warmth of her body. Then who on earth? 

Who on earth indeed? The plot thickens after this! It's called THE LAST MRS. SUMMERS (Those of you who know Rebecca might appreciate the names) and it comes out next August.

A Room of One's Own

RHYS BOWEN: When I first read the Virginia Woolf piece in college it didn't make much impression. After all, I had a serene and private room of my own in an ivy-clad college dorm. But I read it again when I was juggling writing with the demands of being a mother of four small children. And then it really resonated.I remember trying to finish a chapter when there were screams outside my door, someone had taken someone else's toy or made fun of someone else's hair. And the school called to ask me to bring two dozen brownies because "I was the only mother who didn't work!!!!!" I think that was when my thoughts turned to murder.  A haven, a perfect place to write where the inspiration will just flow and nobody will disturb us. Isn't that what we all want?

I've been thinking recently about my perfect place to write. I know that Julia has escaped to our agent's retreat on Nantucket to finish a book without interruptions. I know Susan has fled to a hotel (in Florida, wasn't it?). But I'm not sure it would work for me to go somewhere lovely. I'd be peeking out of the windows, watching the ocean and thinking I should go for a walk on the beach first, or what kind of sea-birds were those. At home I stare at a wall (it does have my Edgar nomination on it, a couple of NYT lists with my name on them AND a photo of a young Robert Redford to remind me of what is possible) But I try not to look out of the window.

So I'm wondering... who would jump at the chance to go and write somewhere lovely and serene? I'd certainly welcome no interruptions and someone else to cook and serve my meals. I think for me it would have to be snowed in in a snug cabin in the mountains with a roaring fire, lots of good soups and mulled wine. I'd get a lot done if I knew I couldn't leave!

So would you escape to write if you were offered the chance? Where would it be?

HALLIE EPHRON: Honestly I don't want to go anywhere. I'm much more productive at home. My tiny office IS my perfect place to write. The only thing that happens there is my work. Maybe it's the reason I didn't start writing until late -- it was once my children's play room. You really do need a place to write. I always remember the story (Woolf tells it in A Room of One's Own) about Jane Austen having only the family drawing room to write in and how she used to have to hide her manuscript.

SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL: I've really never had a room of my own for work. Before Kiddo was born, Hubby and I shared the guest room/office. Then Kiddo took that over. And then, when when Miss Edna moved in, she took Kiddo's bedroom and we made him a "nook" in our dining room. (It's a loft -- not quite as dire as it sounds....) But, with that, I lost my desk, so I would work sitting on the couch or in bed.... Now I have a desk back, but it's in our living/dining/kitchen area, so it's not exactly private. So, yes, for bouts of concentrated effort I like to travel. It really doesn't matter where to me, as long as it's private and I can walk places. Seriously, I would do (almost) anything for a room of my own.... Having a place to work where no one is walking through/bothering me an ongoing challenge... Ah, New York....

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: Yeah, if I went somewhere to write, then I'd have to PACK, right? And then i'd be all worried about what to take, and what would happen in my home while I was gone. I adore my study, the big sugar maple out the window, all my stuff and nice things, and access to everything. Yeah, I'm home. And when it's quiet, and I'm not on a crushing deadline, and the words are (crossing fingers) flowing. That's a journey right there--I'd rather go INTO the book than out somewhere to find it.
If I must, though, I adore writing on airplanes. It's so contained, and such a time bubble, I am incredibly productive when I am at 30,000 feet. Probably having no internet helps, right?.

DEBORAH CROMBIE: I love writing in my office, too. But, this is complete fantasy, right? So I would be in a stone cottage in the Cotwolds, in the autumn or winter, so there would be a fire inside and bare trees and fields outside. I'd write (having my total fantasy ergonomic desk and chair in said cottage) in front of the fire, with cups of tea, and when I needed to think I'd go for long walks with a borrowed dog (no feeding or cleaning up after.) Then in the evenings I'd walk to the local pub and read my pages over dinner and a glass of wine... Can you tell I've been looking at English home magazines?

Hank, so funny, I cannot write on a plane. Just cannot do it. At least not on the computer, although sometimes I manage notes by hand. I always think people are looking over my shoulder and it paralyzes me.

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Debs, can I have the cottage next to you? That sounds ideal. Hank, I can't write on a plane either, but it's usually because we're all so jammed together like herring in a barrel. Either I tuck my arms in and approach the keyboard v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y or I type freely and constantly nudge the person next to me.

My and Rhys' agent's house in Nantucket was about as perfect as one could get. There was a fireplace, but I discovered that if I don't need a fire for heat, I'm happy to avoid the fuss and muss that goes with it. The reason I think it worked so well was that I was visiting in late January/early February; quite possible the only time of the year one has NO desire to walk the beaches of Nantucket. There were hardly any people around, and those with whom I socialized were also writers, and they understood my desire to be monkish.

I also like my own old farmhouse in the country. If I could only afford to send the rest of the family away for a two-week cruise, I could get loads of writing done right here!

RHYS: Debs and Julia, I love visiting my sister-in-law and staying at her lovely manor house. It's the closest I've come to shutting myself away from the world.

RHYS: I think we should all go on a Jungle Red retreat, don't you? Which reminds me of the reason I thought about this topic. I have been invited to be the writer-in-residence at a workshop/retreat in Tuscany next summer. Ten days at a lovely old hotel in a village in Chianti,with good food, wine and gelato tastings, in between intense writing sessions, many of them one-on-one with me. So if you know someone who wants to kick-start that novel, or finish a novel, please tell them about this. Visit www.minervaeducation.net for all the details. Who is going to join me?

I can't wait..