What's Rhys writing? Too many things. She's confused

 RHYS BOWEN: This year has not been easy for me to focus on writing. John had weeks of radiation, I had surgery on my knee, then bits frozen off by the dermatologist then a tooth extracted an in implant put in. Not fun!! But I managed to finish the next Royal Spyness book, called WE THREE QUEENS, and sent it off last week.

Today I'm celebrating the publication of the paperback of ALL THAT IS HIDDEN, and then we drive to Arizona in time for the launch of IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW.

Oh, and I have already started on next year's stand-alone novel that has the delicious title of MRS. ENDICOTT'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE. Middle aged lady escapes her boring life for the south of France...

Whoever imagines the golden years as sitting in a rocking chair, crocheting, has not met me. I barely have time to breathe. But at least I don't have time to be bored!.

I thought I'd share a snippet from the new Royal Spyness book. You'll have to find out who the three queens are... I'm not telling. But poor Georgie. Guess what's about to happen to her.....

“So what is David going to do?” I asked. “The simplest thing would be to keep her as his mistress. Several of my ancestors have lived quite happily with this arrangement—think of Lily Langtry, Alice Keppel.”

                Darcy gave a grunted chuckle. “The last King Edward had more than his share of mistresses, I agree, but he also had a respectable long suffering wife to be at his side on state occasions. You can’t picture Mrs. Simpson receiving foreign heads of state or sitting on an elephant at a durbar.”

                “What a mess,” I said. “I’m sure he won’t give her up.”

                “He won’t,” Darcy said. “He made that quite clear. He’d rather give up the throne than her.”

“Golly.” I tried to swallow back the word too late. My attempts at curtailing my schoolgirl language were not successful in times of crisis.

“He’s absolutely besotted with her.,” Darcy continued. “ She has him completely under her spell.  When we’d got through a bottle of Scotch he kept saying, “You don’t understand, Darcy, old fellow, she’s the most marvelous woman in the world. I couldn’t live without her.”

                “So what does he plan to do?”

                “Allow the newspapers to spill the beans at the right moment, I gather. They’ve been remarkably obedient so far and kept the news of her from the public. But now he wants the public on his side. They adore him and he’s sure that they’ll want him to marry the woman he loves and thus put pressure on their local MPs. The law will be changed and he’ll live happily ever after.”

                “That isn’t likely to happen, is it?”

                “I don’t think so. If it were just civil law then maybe. But you can’t alter the doctrine of the church and he’s the official head of it.”

                “His poor mother,” I said. I had become quite fond of Queen Mary, who had sent me on various assignments for her. She was a stickler for the rules and felt the royal family should be above reproach. She had done everything she could to get her son’s attention away from “that woman” as she called her, but to no avail. His late father, King George, had been remarkably prophetic. “That boy will be the downfall of the monarchy,” he had said not long before he died.  I just prayed this wasn’t going to turn out to be a true prophesy. We had endured one war between king and parliament in our history and it had ended with the king losing his head.  Someone should remind my cousin of this.

                A thought now struck me. “Darcy, why did he particularly want you to listen to his lament? He has his own group of friends, doesn’t he, and you were never close to him.”

                “Ah.” Darcy gave a deep breath. “It wasn’t exactly me he wanted. It was our house.”

                “What? What do you mean?”

                “He knows that the moment the news breaks Mrs. Simpson will be hounded by the press. It could break before he’s ready as the American papers are already full of it. He wants to spare her the unpleasantness that could ensue. He wants her safely far from the public eye…”

                It was gradually dawning on me exactly what he was saying.

                “He wants her to come and stay here?”  I heard my voice rising.  

AHA

And Mrs. Simpson isn't the only person who will be invading Georgie and Darcy's life. It's going to get rather complicated very quickly. But you'll have to wait until November to find out more.

Oh well. Back to work. And don't forget that IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW comes out on March 12, and Clare and I will be holding a launch party at the Poisoned Pen in Phoenix the Saturday before, on March 9. If you'd like a copy signed by both of us do get in touch with the store and they can ship you one.

And don't forget to check out Reds and Readers on March 12 when I'll be going live and giving away a signed copy!

Rhys Celebrates The Proof of the Pudding.

RHYS BOWEN: Today I'm excited to be celebrating the publication of the 17th Royal Spyness mystery, THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING. It's a bitter-sweet moment as I was supposed to be doing some in person events, the first time I've traveled since the beginning of Covid.

But I've come to learn in the last few years that life is completely unpredictable.  A few weeks ago my knee started hurting me and my doctor sent me for physical therapy. In the midst of this my other knee started hurting and suddenly one morning, walking across my living room, I couldn't walk, bend or straighten it. An MRI reveals that I have bad arthritis and multiple tears in my meniscus. The result is that I need a knee replacement.  Not what I wanted to hear. As someone who has played tennis, hiked and swam all my life this is a huge shock and I have to think when I can schedule it. Complicated by the fact that John needs various medical tests and may need some kind of therapy.

So at least I'm doing a couple of Zooms, one was yesterday at the Poinsoned Pen and one is for an interview on Thursday. I'll put up a link when I have it. 

But I'd like to tell you a bit about this book. Lady Georgie is awaiting two arrivals, one is her baby but the other is her new chef from Paris whom she hired when she was over there (see Peril in Paris). The chef turns out to be brilliant. The neighbors are impressed and he is invited to cook for a big charity dinner, held at a spooky manor house that has a poison garden. What could go wrong?  When you read the book you'll find that a very famous person makes a surprise visit!

So what gave me the idea for using a poison garden? When I'm in London my dear friend Louise Penny and I love to visit the Chelsea Physic Garden. This garden was started by monks, I believe in the 1400s and contains plants for the healing of all kinds of ailments: one area for the heart, one for the lungs etc. There is also one area that is the poison garden. All of these plants can kill you. Louise and I lingered by it, discussing, as one does with a fellow mystery author, which plant might work best in certain circumstances, and thus getting strange worried looks from people who passed us.

The interesting thing, during my research, is how many of these plants look innocuous and are all around us, easy to access. In England foxglove, miseltoe, deadly nightshade, hemlock and yew grow everywhere wild beside the roads. Lily of the Valley is a favorite in gardens and the bulbs look just like small onions.  You don't even need something exotic like castor beans or angels trumpet. Which plant might have been used in this story? You'll have to read it to find out!

Revising Agatha Christie

 RHYS BOWEN:  We’ve all been talking about the revisions that have taken place in the works of several known literary figures recently.  Their works are being altered to conform to current sensibilities, creating debate over how much we should try to reform the past and whether we have the right to do so without permission of the author.

In Agatha Christie’s novels terms like ‘oriental, gypsy and native’ have been removed. Ian Fleming’s books are being scrubbed of racist and sexist phrases. (can you picture Bond girls wearing plaid skirts below the knee and suggesting a game of ping pong to James?)

We’ve all read about Roald Dahls books with adjectives like fat and ugly being taken out as well as references to skin color.

So is this a good idea? Is the aim of literature not to offend anybody? Are most readers not wise enough to think “this is how it was in the past. People were more racist/sexist.”  

I’ve just experienced this myself in the last round of edits for my upcoming Royal Spyness book. I too have had to remove words like “natives” even though I know that a person living in 1936 would have used them. The one occasion I dug my heels in was when an explorer says he was chased by tribesmen across the desert. No, they were not local inhabitants. They were Bedouins. Tribesmen.

In one of my books, set in Kenya, I had to write a foreword to explain that this was how the British colonials treated the natives  local inhabitants in those days, even though we find it offensive today.  How else do we know exactly how it was? How else do we learn?

My feeling is that books are supposed to invoke emotions in us. We are supposed to feel rage about Oliver Twist asking for more in the orphanage. We are supposed to feel rage and weep when we read Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Books should be learning experiences.  When you read about what some of my characters had to endure in WWII you should feel that war is never a good idea.

So how far do we go with this cleansing of anything that could offend? Does Oliver Twist now live a happy children’s home? Does Fagin, that kind old man, take the children out for fun walks where they sometimes find a handkerchief fallen from a pocket?  I personally do not do well with violence in books. So no torture scenes from now on. No on page killing please. Every murder must be neat and sterile.  And what about bad language. Some readers get offended at four letter words. So are drug dealers now going to have to say, “Please go away, you naughty policeman?”

What do you think, Reds? Do you think we should purge books written long ago so that they conform to current sensibilities? Don’t you think readers can rationalize that this is how it was and even learn from past mistakes?

HALLIE EPHRON: I think… it’s complicated. When viewed from my more (what?) privileged viewpoint it looks one way. When I try to put myself in the shoes of someone who is arguing for the changes? No, I still don’t get it. But then…Coincidentally I recently managed to get my hands on a copy of a play my parents wrote; it ran on Broadway for a year, a hit, starting in 1944. It’s about a young couple who have a baby during the Depression and have to move in with her parents. Other relatives move in, too, and chaos ensues. It’s a farce  with the baby as a Whoopi cushion. 

Here’s the thing: It’s totally racist. There’s a Black housekeeper who is SO stereotyped it’s horrifying. Yes it’s a period piece. No amount of rewriting can make it palatable to today’s audiences. And my parents, old Lefties, thought they were liberal and racially tolerant. 

So, like I say, it’s complicated

JENN McKINLAY: I’m a recovering librarian so I am not down with censorship of any kind. And, yes, purging old books of anything offensive is censorship. How can we measure the progress of society if we take away the starting mark? I understand that some will argue that those original works promote racism, misogyny, homophobia, and xenophobia, etc., but I believe it’s the opposite. I don’t believe they promote these things so much as they call them out by their mere existence.

I remember reading the opener of a John D. MacDonald book where Travis McGee slaps a woman (she was hysterical, of course, she was) and I thought nope, and yet, I kept reading because it was published in 1965 and I knew it was a reflection of the time in which it was written. Could we go back and erase the slap? Sure. But again, how does society improve if we don’t have an accurate reflection of ourselves from which to grow? My other core belief, as a librarian, is that a good library has something to offend everyone. So there’s that.

LUCY BURDETTE: I’m with Jenn and Rhys here–we should not try to fix what’s already written as those books are an important part of our history. It’s a different matter if an author wants to rewrite something, or for that matter, if a publisher denies a book because of racist/sexist/anti-LBGTQ language. I’m so worried about the growing trend toward removing books from schools and libraries–this feels like part of that. BTW, Hallie, you must have been horrified to read that play from your parents!

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I’m just going to point out that announcing you’re going to publish an “updated, non-offensive” edition for an old book is a terrific way to get an enormous amount of unpaid publicity, and I’m cynical enough to suspect the opportunity to get everyone talking online and in print about your forty-year-old intellectual property might have something to do with these recent efforts - which, you’ll notice, are always announced by the publisher. Think of the sales - from people buying the original “before it’s gone,” and buying the “modern” version in order to either support it or tear it apart. Providentially, every company putting out bowdlerized versions of these classics has said it’s also going to continue selling the original. 

Anyone else notice this? Or do I simply have a low, suspicious mind?

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Yikes, it is complicated. I start out being incensed at the idea of "re-writing" (censoring!) books that some people may now find offensive, and then I think that with my white, middle-class, Protestant identity, is that just me shouting out my privilege? But cleaning things up is a slippery slope and if we start down it, where does it end? Who gets to be the final arbitrator? And shouldn't we be aware of the changes in society's norms and perceptions? For instance, I've recently been rereading Dorothy Sayers. When I first read Sayers in my teens it would never have occurred to me that she used anti-Semitic terms. Now they make me cringe. But if you change them you lose the opportunity to see how we've progressed in the hundred years since they were written.

And my cynical self agrees with Julia.

RHYS: So what about you, dear friends? Should we re-write books to take out anything that might now offend or should we leave it to the judgment of the reader to realize that we have progressed in some ways and are now more enlightened as to what is offensive?  Or is there a middle ground?

One Perfect Sentence

RHYS:

I saw this on Facebook the other day, and I found myself thinking “Have I ever created a perfect sentence? One that makes the reader say “wow. How amazingly beautiful.” I’m afraid one didn’t come readily to mind. I am not a literary novelist. I do not toy with words as if I were trying to find the perfect spot to place a tile in a mosaic. I see myself as a story teller. I want to tell a good story. I want to take the reader to a time and place and make them feel they are there. Those are my objectives.

One of the nicest reviews I ever had said, “I wasn’t conscious of the words on the page.”  Thank you. Exactly what I wanted to achieve. But along the way it would have been nice to have created a perfect sentence or two. I’m thinking of my books that got Edgar nominations. (3 so far but no wins!) Did the judges find a perfect sentence in one of them? Or did they simply say “She tells a good story?” I rather think it’s the latter.  I do think I achieved a few good descriptions like this one from the beginning of The Venice Sketchbook. “The sky was a perfect pale blue and the sound of bells echoed over the whole city. Swallows darted and swooped across the sky like tiny Maltese crosses, while seagulls screeched, and below, in the courtyard, pigeons strutted. “A city of bells and birds,” I said with satisfaction.

I suppose I could have used more imagery and compared the blue sky to something, but I’m not good at that.  I just want to paint a picture, simply.

I’m sure some of the other Reds have created a perfect sentence. Julia’s It was a hell of a night to throw away a baby is about as perfect an opening as you can find.  I am satisfied with the opening of The Tuscan Child: “He knew he was going to die. That was quite obvious.”

But perhaps my favorites are the opening of the first Royal Spyness book. “There are two disadvantages to being a minor royal.” And Murphy’s Law: That mouth of yours will be getting you into big trouble one day.”  Neither is poetic or evocative but both let you instantly know the character who is talking. Both came instantly to me in first chapters that I didn’t have to revise one word.

So I’ve come to accept that the works of Rhys Bowen will never be part of the high school English studies. Nobody will have to write an essay on The Use of Imagery in the Molly Murphy books, and no PHD student will mull over the themes in the Royal Spyness books.  But if someone said, “I wasn’t conscious of the words on the page,” and my fans write to me the day after a book is published, demanding “when is the next book coming out?” And I reply telling them that a new book came out yesterday, and they reply “I’ve already read that one”.  Then I feel good! That is enough.

But I came across this quote from Kristin Hannah and it did make me stare and savor it. Well done. 

So Reds, do you have any perfect sentences to share? Have you ever written one or two that you feel especially proud of? Or do you have a writer whose prose makes you gasp with admiration? I think Pat Conroy did that for me.

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.

Rhys returning to Roots

RHYS BOWEN : I've just started on my 14th book in the Royal Spyness series. Finally I'm able to set a book in Cornwall. I've been wanting to for ages as I spend part of every summer there and it is a part of England that has great childhood memories too. John's sister married into one of the old Cornish families. His cousin has the title and stately home. Tony inherited the manor house (which isn't too shabby either) so every summer I play at being lady of the manor.

I'm finally putting all of this into a book. The adorable Cornish people who call everyone 'my lovey'. Cornish pasties. Clotted cream. Smugglers. So much good stuff for Georgie to experience.  And as well as this I am making the book a homage to Daphne Du Maurier's REBECCA.  I've always adored that book--the great brooding atmosphere, the clever twists that punch the reader in the gut.
And having decided to do this, guess what? I learn that Netflix is going to be doing a Rebecca series. Perfect timing!  I've called it THE LAST MRS. SUMMERS.

Of course, being a Royal Spyness book, mine won't be all dark and brooding, but I'm hoping for some good twists of my own. Here is a snippet of a scene near the beginning.

“This can’t be right,” Belinda said. “I don’t remember this at all.” She slowed the car to a crawl. “Oh, look. An answer to prayers, darling. There’s someone to ask. Be an angel and find out, will you?”,

I tied a scarf around my head and stepped out into the full force of the gale. A man was leaning on a gate, watching us.  He didn’t seem to mind getting wet at all. I went over to him.

“Excuse me, but do you know a house called White Sails?”

“Ooo arr,” he said, nodding with enthusiasm. He was an older man with a weathered face and a mouth missing several teeth. He was wearing an old sack over his shoulders and a shapeless faded hat on his head. “Fish!”

“No, I don’t want fish. I want directions to a house called White Sails.” I tried not to sound too exasperated.

“That’s right. Err wants fish.” He had a really strong burr to his accent and he was grinning at me. Clearly only the village idiot would be out in rain like this.

“White sails” I said again, trying to be patient. “It’s a house on the coast near here. Could you tell us how to get there?”

He was eyeing me up and down as if I was a creature from a distant planet. “Round little rumps,” he said with great enthusiasm.

“Well, really.” I stalked back to the car.

“Disgusting old man.” I slammed the car door behind me. “He was leering at me and then he said I had round little rumps. The nerve of it.”

Belinda looked at me and then suddenly started laughing.

“It’s not funny. You might not mind having men comment on your shape but I certainly do. Especially when I’m cold, wet and hungry.”

“He was telling us the way, darling. I’ve remembered now. The headland is called Little Rumps. We’re on the right track.”

“Little Rumps,” I muttered. “What a stupid name for a headland.  Camels and Splatt and now Little Rumps. This really is a very silly place!”

If you love Poldark or Doc Martin then this will be for you. 

And next Tuesday, August 6, is the release date for the new Georgie book, called LOVE AND DEATH AMONG THE CHEETAHS. I'll be heading out on tour to lots of hot places. I hope to see some of you along the way! (There are giveaways right now on my Facebook page, www.facebook.com/rhysbowenauthor)

Kim Heniadis is the WINNER of THE MURDER LIST! Email Hank at hryan at whdh dot com with your snail mail address!

Rhys on What We're Writing: Georgie and the dangers of Africa

RHYS BOWEN: My next Royal Spyness book comes out in August and it's called LOVE AND DEATH AMONG THE CHEETAHS.  As you read it you will appreciate the play on words in this title. The book takes place in the part of Kenya known as the Happy Valley where British aristocrats lived a life of sex, drugs and rock-and-roll. Georgie and Darcy go there on their honeymoon and you can imagine how shocked Georgie would be at this sort of behavior.  Her great grandmother Queen Victoria certainly would not have been amused!

Georgie is entranced at such a wonderful honeymoon until she realizes that Darcy must have an ulterior motive for taking her there. Something is going on, beyond the debauchery. However it seems that all around there are dangers big and small, both human and animal. This scene is part of Georgie's introduction to the area:

I glanced around and realized I had come further than I intended. I could only just catch a glimpse of the house through the trees.

            “I should go back,” I told myself.

            I nearly jumped out of my skin when a deep voice right behind me said, “Don’t move. Don’t take another step.”

            I wanted to turn and see who was speaking, but I did as I was told and remained frozen.

            “Now slowly step backward,” said the voice, “And slightly to your left.”

            I took one step backward, then another until a pair of hands landed on my shoulders, making me jump again. This time I turned around and saw a large middle aged man with a weathered face and a strong jaw line looking down at me. In his youth he would have been extremely handsome. He was quite good looking still, a powerful man with deeply tanned skin and bright blue eyes. His sun-streaked  hair he wore rather long so that it curled over his collar. In spite of the cold he was wearing an open necked shirt.

            “You should look where you are walking and not take the forest lightly,” he said. “All sort of things live here that would love to kill you.”

“Was I in danger?” I asked. I scanned the trees, trying to spot a lurking lion or elephant but could see nothing.

“You really were,” he said. “One of the most deadly encounters you could have is right at your feet.”

He pointed to the forest floor. A foot or so ahead of me was a wide black ribbon and it was alive and moving.

“Siafu,” he said.

I peered at them. “Ants?”

“Driver ants. They can kill anything that is weak or can’t move. If you tripped and fell down they’d swarm all over you in seconds and even if you managed to run away their bite is extremely painful. In fact the soldier ants at the outside of the column bite and won’t let go. The Masai use them for sutures when they are gashed in the bush.”

I was still staring in fascination at the black moving ribbon of ants. Then I remembered my manners and turned to my rescuer. “Thank you so much. You obviously saved me from a nasty fate.”

“Glad to be of service,” he said. “Even though I should shoot you as a trespasser on my land.”

“Your land? Golly , I thought I was in Diddy’s back garden,” I said.

“Up here at the edge of the forest our estates merge,” he said. “We don’t put up fences. No point. The elephants would just knock them down.  You’re also lucky you didn’t meet an elephant, by the way.” He held out a large hand. “I’m Lord Cheriton. They call me Bwana around here. And you are?”

“Lady Georgiana Rannoch—I mean O’Mara,” I said. “I’m sorry, this has quite unnerved me. I’ve just got married. I keep forgetting.”

He laughed then. “Lady Georgiana. Of course. How delightful to meet you. My daughter mentioned you were on the same flight as they were. Come and have some breakfast.”

“I should get back,” I said. “. My husband will be worrying where I’ve got to.”

“Then let me escort you back,” he said. “You never know what other dangers might be

lurking Here, take my arm.”

I could hardly refuse although to be honest I wasn’t quite happy with the way he was looking at me. Rather like the big bad wolf when Little Red Riding hood stepped into the cottage. I half expected him to lick his lips.  Before I could take his arm he had slipped a hand around my waist. “What a delectable little creature you are,” he said. “I shall enjoy getting to know you better."

Will Georgie escape the amorous Lord Cheriton? Will there be worse encounters ahead? And as she puts to Darcy one night, "Exactly why are we here?"
Love and Death Among the Cheetahs is published August 6 and my crazy tour schedule is on my website. Maybe I'll be coming to a town near you. I hope so!. 
AND By the Way: Berkley are going to be having a big celebration for the tenth anniversary of the paperback release of HER ROYAL SPYNESS. Watch out for giveaways!

Rhys celebrates pub day of FOUR FUNERALS AND MAYBE A WEDDING.

RHYS BOWEN: When you read this I'll be in the air. Not levitating with excitement because my new book has been published, but because I'll be flying between Phoenix and Boston on a leg of my book tour. I'm really looking forward to this part of the tour because it has become a Jungle Red Event.

I'll be meeting up with Hank, Hallie and Roberta (who also has a new book out this week) at the Brookline Booksmith bookstore where we'll have a fun and funny discussion. Then tomorrow on to Madison CT and the RJ Julia bookstore where Hallie, Roberta and I will have more witty and wonderful things to say (we hope! It might depend how much alcohol was imbibed the night before).

I'm so delighted to be sharing part of my booktour with friends because usually they are lonely travels, sometimes quite stressful. I remember all the times I sat at an airport staring at the board announcing the flight had been delayed, knowing that I was due in a city several hours away to give a talk at 7 p.m.  Or I ran into traffic and sat in the taxi, knowing I was going to be late. There was the time I was due to be picked up by a car in San Diego and taken to Orange County, at noon.  At 12:15 I called them. "That car was cancelled," they said and couldn't tell me by whom.
I'm standing outside the hotel and need to get to Orange County, I shouted into the phone. You have to get here right away.
They tell me they don't have another car for half an hour. It arrives and then we are stuck in traffic. My 2 p.m. event ends up with a 4 p.m. arrival, and, miraculously many of the people have stayed, bless their hearts.

Bumpy monsoon skies ahead!

Before I was sent on tour I always pictured them as glamorous events. One flew into a city, a big black limo whisked one away to a luxury hotel where one ordered room service, went to speak, came back to dine. Yes, all of those things are true, but often there is just enough time to change before an event, and one returns at 9:30 feeling too tired to eat anything. Many meals are skipped. Those lovely rooms with antiques in them are only used for a few hours before a 5:am car shows up the next morning.

A couple of hotel memories: the first time I stayed at the Hotel ZaZa in Houston. It's very boutiquey and artsy. I was welcomed by a young man who personally escorted me to the Splendida Suite. He opened double doors and there was a full size glass dining table with chandelier over it, then a giant curved sofa in front of a TV. Asian antiques everywhere.

 Then through a bathroom to a bedroom.
This hotel specializes in art photographs. I went to take a shower and there, in the bathroom, was a giant photo of an Afghan tribesman--staring at me.  Do I wear a burka in the shower I wonder?

And this was the photograph in the loo!

Another time I flew into Denver with snow piled six feet high around me. I was driven to sign at various stores, then dropped at a hotel at 2:30 with the promise my escort would pick me up again at 5. I hadn't eaten since six that morning. "Where's the coffee shop?" I ask at the desk. "It closed at 2," I am told. And no room service. I stare out at a vast expanse of snow. Any restaurants within walking distance? I ask. She shakes her head. Not really. Then you need to call me a cab. I need something to eat.  Finally she takes pity. We have a bus, she says. And she is the driver.
So we set out, in this 20 seater bus, cruising through the snow drifts until I spot GOLDEN ARCHES.
And we drive through the drive-through in a 20 seater bus.

This is the glamorous life of the book tour!
And this week I look forward to seeing friends in Boston, Madison CT, Ann Arbor, Houston, and various stores around Northern California. The whole tour is on my website www.rhysbowen.com

FOUR FUNERALS AND MAYBE A WEDDING is the 12th in the Royal Spyness series. And if you're wondering if Lady Georgie finally gets married.... well, you'll just have to read the book!
But I will give a signed copy to one of today's commenters.

RHYS CELEBRATES LAUNCH DAY!

JENN MCKINLAY: One of my very first “I’m an author now” memories is walking into the Poisoned Pen for one of my first signings and having PK (the unflappable Patrick King) tell me that Rhys Bowen was visiting and was going to moderate the book talk. Rhys Bowen! I was so undone, I almost turned around and ran home. I’m very glad I didn’t. Rhys was, well, Rhys. She was charming and lovely, funny and gracious. And now I’m celebrating the release of her latest fabulous A Royal Spyness mystery On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service. Congratulations, Rhys!

I am a lover of series – the longer running the better! Since Rhys has managed to weave her Lady Georgie magic for eleven books, I have to ask, how do you do it, Rhys? How do you keep your series fresh and how long do you think the series will go? (Please say forever).

RHYS BOWEN: Dear Jenn. Thank you for hosting me today. And I'm so glad I spend part of the year in Phoenix and we get to see each other. I'm sure we know each other's spiel by heart now!  How do I keep a series fresh? Well, I guess I have to enjoy visiting those characters. This series has been pure joy to me from the first words I wrote for Her Royal Spyness back in 2007. I still sit and chuckle as I write and call out to John , "Hey, listen to what Fig just said!"  I figure if they can make me chuckle then my readers will do the same. So I have no plan to quit any time soon (in fact I'm just signing new contract)

LUCY BURDETTE: Rhys, I really loved visiting Ireland with Georgie and Darcy in CROWNED AND DANGEROUS.  And now I see that we will have the pleasure of visiting Italy this time out in ON HER MAJESTY'S FRIGHTFULLY SECRET SERVICE. My question is do you plan the books around places that you happen to visit, or do you go  visit the places that will be in the books? (I know you do some research by accident, as I will always remember your story about stumbling into a funeral unexpectedly and thinking that this would be exactly the kind of thing that Georgie would do!)

RHYS: Some of the books have been planned around a place. I definitely wanted to write Naughty in Nice and went there to do research. But this one was purely serendipitous. When I start a new book I look at the real events that happened around the time I'm setting my story. And I saw that in spring 1935 there was a big international conference in Stresa, Italy. Britain, France and Italy met to discuss how to combat the Nazi threat. And I thought, "this is interesting because Mussolini was a huge fan of Hitler." And then I thought "I bet there were other negotiations going on behind the scenes." And I'd always wanted to make Georgie do some real spying to live up to her name.

And the next step of serendipity was that I was asked to teach a writing workshop in Tuscany. (I'm repeating it next year for anyone interested!) So I'd already be in Italy. So I headed north to Stresa and spent a wonderful time doing my research there--research which involved going to lots of villas and gardens, steamers up the lake, and of course wine!

INGRID THOFT: I know it’s like choosing your favorite child, but do you have a favorite character in this particular book or the series in general?  Has this always been the case or has your affection for that character grown over time?  What about a character you don’t like?  Do your readers' feelings on this subject align with your own?

RHYS: I'm very fond of Ceorgie's old Cockney grandfather, mainly because I based him on my father, who came from very humble beginnings to become a research engineer. He was a lovely, gentle man like Georgie's grandfather. And I love writing characters I don't like--Fig, Mrs. Simpson. I make them as bitchy as I dare. In Mrs. Simpson's case I try to use things she actually said.

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: I know you'll tell us more about this story (and cannot wait to read it!) --but I am constantly delighted by your enthusiasm and your innovation. You are constantly raising the bar on yourself..and succeeding, again and again. You're endlessly goodnatured and flexible. How did you get this life philosophy? And I wonder if Georgie could come to Boston--so you could research here!

RHYS: Darling Hank: you don't see me when I have a deadline looming and the bath backs up! But I'm lucky enough to live in two beautiful places, to travel, to have great friends and wonderful family, also to be able to write what I want to. So I should be content and enjoy life. I have certainly come through many stressful periods in life (husband laid off and 3 kids in college!)  Also a stressful spring this year with John's health looking bleak. So now I savor the good times

HALLIE EPHRON: Rhys, in this new book Georgie does some more spying, so I'm wondering what kind of research you did and whether there was a historical figure whose experiences you may have used?

RHYS: Hallie, as with everything Georgie does the spying is almost a disaster and puts her in danger! I did read a lot about MI5 when I was writing In Farleigh Field so I know about how real spies operated at that time.

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Rhys, I cannot wait to read Georgie's latest adventure!!! I'd love to know about Georgie's genesis. What first gave you the idea for the character and the series? Did you just hear Georgie's voice in your head?

RHYS: Hi Debs! Georgie started  out as a challenge. My then publisher said they couldn't really break me out until I wrote a big, dark stand-alone. I thought about it and couldn't see myself with serial killers, child molesters. So I asked myself what was the most improbable heroine I could think of. How about if she was royal? And penniless? I started writing in Georgie's voice and she was right there, immediately, talking to me. She dictated, I wrote. I still find it easy to be in her head.

In this new book Georgie is planning to go to Italy to be with her friend Belinda who is having a baby and alone. When Queen Mary hears this she gives Georgie another assignment and sends her to a posh house party. But once there it is clear that darker things are happening and Georgie finds herself in the middle of them.  I can SAY NO MORE or I'd have to kill you!

So thank you everyone for joining me today for the launch of ON HER MAJESTY'S FRIGHTFULLY SECRET SERVICE. I start with a launch party tonight at Book Passage in Corte Madera, CA. If you're anywhere near I have baby cheesecakes from the best cheesecake shop in the world. And champagne.
Then I'm hitting the road for Houston, Ann Arbor, Scottsdale, Orange County and Pasadena before I return to the Bay Area for more events. It's all on my website, www.rhysbowen.com

What We're writing--Rhys on Dialog (or is it dialogue?)

RHYS BOWEN: At the moment you are reading this I'll be heading to the airport on my way to the Bouchercon mystery convention where I'm looking forward to seeing fellow Reds Hank, Debs and Susan. I'm on a panel on Saturday with Hank and Deborah--it's about our tales from the road: mishaps, misadventures and outright fun during our book tours and speeches. I hope there are going to be some stunning reveals. I know I have plenty of good stories. I may share some with you when it's my next turn to host JRW.

But in the meantime I'm juggling two books: I have finished the first draft of the next Georgie Book, called ON HER MAJESTY'S FRIGHTFULLY SECRET SERVICE, I've started on the final polish, and I'm just starting to write the next Molly book, called THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST. This is a much more somber affair so I'm having to juggle the two a little and switch moods between jolly and depressing!

I've been reading a lot of books lately and one thing that strikes me about beginning writers is that they don't know how to handle dialog.(or is it dialogue? I spend my time writing half in British English and half in American English, hence perpetually confused!)

 When people start to talk we have one line of speech after another, like staccato bullets. In real life people don't speak like that. They speak in broken sentences, they gesture, their body language matches their mood, outside things happen like planes flying over, dogs rushing in. AND we need to be reminded where we are. If the dialog scene takes place on a train station we need to hear an announcement or toot of a train whistle to remind us.

I've been told that my dialog is one of the things readers enjoy most about my books, so I thought I'd share a scene in which we have action, dialog, character and setting all playing a part: This is from the Georgie book I am working on. We are in Stresa, Italy, on Lake Maggiori:

            As I approached the villa I spotted a group of people, sitting on a terrace beneath an arbor of wisteria. I felt suddenly shy and awkward. Why had I not asked the driver to take me to the villa? I must look pathetic, staggering up the drive carrying my own suitcase and dressed in my unfashionable tweed suit. And what if the letter still hadn’t arrived and here I was with my suitcase?  Had the queen actually suggested that I join the house party, or merely that I should be welcomed for a drink if I showed up? Why on earth hadn’t I left the suitcase at Belinda’s house and pretended I had just dropped by to pay my respects? Then, when they suggested I should stay I could have acted as if I was surprised and they would have sent someone to pick up my belongings. But now I was committed. I couldn’t retreat without being noticed. It was only a matter of time before one of them looked up and…

            I was startled by a great scream. “Georgie!”

            I was even more startled to see that the scream came from my mother. She had risen to her feet and was running toward me, her arms open. “Georgie, my darling!” she exclaimed in that voice that had filled London theaters. “What a lovely, lovely surprise. I had no idea you were coming to join us. Why didn’t somebody tell me?”

            She flung her arms around me , something she was not in the habit of doing. Then she turned back to the others. “Which of you arranged to bring my daughter to me? Was it you, Max, who suggested it? You knew I was pining for her, didn’t you?”

            I had prudently put down the suitcase before she attacked me. Now she took my hand and dragged me forward. “Everybody, this is my darling child, Georgie, whom I haven’t seen for ages and ages. And I had no idea she was coming to join us. ” She gazed at me adoringly. “And now you’re here. It seems like a miracle.”

            I noticed she had failed to mention that she had bumped into a few days ago and at that time there had been no talk of inviting me to join her. Nor had she seemed overjoyed to see me. As I smiled back at her I wondered what she was up to.

            Several other members of the party had also risen to their feet as she led me up steps to the arbor. Among them I recognized Miss Cami-Knickers herself. She looked older, perfectly groomed, incredibly chic as she stepped down from the terrace and approached me.

            “Georgiana. How delightful to see you again after all this time. I was so pleased to receive a note from the queen herself suggesting that you join our party.”

            I shook the hand that was offered. “I do hope this has not inconvenienced you in any way, Camilla,” I said. “When I told her majesty that I’d be staying nearby I really had no idea she’d invite me to be part of your house party. But she was insistent that I pay my respects to my cousin, the Prince of Wales.”

            “But not at all,” Camilla laughed. I remembered she had always had a horsy sort of laugh. Her horsy looks had definitely been improved with impeccable grooming and expensive clothes but the laugh was unchanged. “Actually we’re horribly short on women at the party, so you are a godsend at evening up the numbers.  Come and meet my husband and the other guests.”

            I followed her up to the terrace where several men were now standing to greet me. One of them I recognized immediately as Paolo, Belinda’s former love. I saw from his face that he also remembered me but I also saw the warning sign flash in his eyes. “Pretend you don’t know me,” could not have been more clear if he had shouted the words.

            “My husband Paolo, Count of Marola and Martini,” she said proudly.

            “My dear Lady Georgiana, you are most welcome, especially since my wife tells me you and she were old friends from your school days.” He took my hand and kissed it.

            “How do you do, Count,” I said, inclining my head formally.  “But please let us dispense with formality. Why don’t you call me Georgie?”

            ‘Georgie. How charming.” He smiled. I had forgotten how incredibly handsome he was. I could see why Belinda had been quite smitten at the time.

            Camilla took my arm and moved me on. “And of course you already know Herr von Strohheim?”

            My mother’s beau Max clicked his heels and said, “Georgie. I am pleased to see you again,” in his stilted, staccato English. At least it was better than when he first met my mother and spoke only occasional monosyllables.

“Max, how are you?” I said, shaking his hand. He too looked handsome in a blonde and Germanic way and I was reminded of my encounter on the train with….

            “And this is Count Rudolf von Rosskopf,” Camilla said, and I found myself face to face with my would-be seducer.

            He too took my hand and drew it to his lips. “We meet again, Lady Georgiana,” he said. “What a delightful surprise. And I had no idea that we would run into each other again so soon. It must be fate, drawing us together.” He looked rather pleased with himself and his eyes flirted with me.

            “Behave yourself, Rudi,” my mother snapped. “This is my young daughter, you know.”

            “Not too young,” Rudi said. “Ripe and ready for adventure, I think.”

RHYS: I rather fear that seduction will be the least of Georgie's worries as the story progresses!

So do share: what do you look for in good dialog?

Rhys on Research

RHYS BOWEN: Last week Karen gave you her report on our workshop in Tuscany. At the end of the ten days we went our separate ways and I headed north to Lake Maggiore to do research for my next Royal Spyness book.  I thought you might be interested to see what such research entails. When I’ve told people that I was heading to Nice or to Italy to do research, I see them grinning and thinking, “Right. Research. I don’t think.”

                Actually I do work quite hard, albeit in lovely surroundings. When I was writing Naughty in Nice I spent several days in the main library looking through old postcards and maps. After all streets and their names are always being changed in France. Princess Grace Boulevard would not have existed at the time I write about. I spent a fabulous morning at the hotel Negresco, wandering hallways and peering around corners, with the blessing of the management who suddenly decided I should be given free rein when I produced a card that said I was a bestselling author. I took lots of pictures and wandered streets (and ate and drank local food and wine, of course. All part of the research of bringing a place to life!)

.

                This time in Stresa I was most interested in finding a villa and gardens that matched the setting I wanted for Lady Georgie’s stay. I was fascinated by some of the villas that must once have been grand and have now been allowed to fall into ruins. (Tempted to buy one and restore it!) But I did see one lovely villa that would fit the bill and then there were gardens at Villa Tarranto and on the Isola Bella, both of which are incorporated into my Villa Gloriosa.

Also I was interested in the details of the conference that took place in Stresa in 1935 between Italy, France and England, deciding what to do about the Nazi threat. Where was it held? Who was there? I always like to bring real history into my stories and this conference was a gift—right time, right place. Then there was the train and steamer up to the Swiss part of the lake, as that also has to be part of my story. Where might there have been a famous clinic in 1935? And of course the Grand Hotel where Ernest Hemmingway stayed when he wrote “A Farewell to Arms”. Surely there was a way to bring that into the story!

                Above all I try to get the feel of a place: when I sit in the little square and drink coffee what do I see, hear, smell? It is deliciously cool in the shade of the sycamore trees. Sound echoes from the surrounding alleyways. Italians in conversation always sound as if they are about to break into a fight. And then there is the weather: morning clouds draped over the mountains. Wisps of cloud attached to the peaks like strands of sheep’s wool caught on a fence. The far side of the lake swallowed into blackness during a storm. Weather is always important in a story so I take pictures and make notes of every weather change.

                When I write a book my aim is to take my readers there, not tell them about it. If I’ve experienced it then hopefully they will took.  Watch out for the book next year. It’s called “On Her Majesty’s Frightfully Secret Service.”

Help, I'm being pursued by a serial comma! Rhys on writing.

RHYS BOWEN:

I always look upon the arrival of copy edits with dread. Sometimes they are a breeze and I go through them in a couple of days, changing the odd word when the copy editor has pointed out that I have used "distraught" four times in one paragraph. Other times I grit my teeth when a copy editor and I don't agree over certain facts of grammar and style.  I sometimes like to write partial sentences--that don't actually have a verb in them. "I found it hard to breath. Stifling darkness all around me."Copy editors are raised to think that every sentence has to have a verb, so they insert "was". I delete again.. 

Then there is the battle of the commas. I am not good with commas, I confess. The rules are different between UK and America and I was never good to begin with. So the copy editor and I wage war over what I consider an excess of commas. 

These I can handle. What I find harder is a copy editor who is a thwarted writer and tries to change my prose. Occasionally I agree that a rephrasing would be better.  More often I underline and write STET in big letters. It's my book. I wrote it and if the prose isn't purple enough for you then tough luck.        

I'm about to start on the copy edits of CROWNED AND DANGEROUS, the next Royal Spyness book, due out in August. Usually the process has been painless at Penguin, so I'm hoping for the best.

We left Georgie and Darcy at the end of Malice in the Palace heading for Greta Green in Scotland. We pick up where we left off, but in a snowstorm with the Great North Road closed by a drift:

            We drove on, hoping to see at least a village close to the road. I think we must have been almost back as far as York when we finally found any sign of human habitation, at least humans who might be still awake.  This was also a pub, a little off the road and by a railway crossing. The sign, swinging in the blizzard-like wind, said The Drowning Man and showed a hand coming out of a pond.

            “Hardly encouraging,” Darcy said dryly. “But at least a light is still burning and hopefully someone is still awake.”

            He opened the driver’s side door, letting in a great flurry of snow, then wrestled the wind to close it hurriedly before running across to the pub. I peered through the snow-clad windscreen, watching him. He knocked, waited, and to my relief the door finally opened, letting out a band of light across the snow. They seemed to be having a prolonged conversation during which the other person could be seen peering at me, then Darcy marched back to the car. For a horrible moment I thought he was going to say that they had no rooms and we’d have to drive on. But instead he came around to my door and opened it for me.

“They appear to have rooms. Hardly the most welcoming of places, from what I can see, but it’s really a case of any port in a storm.” He took my hand and led me through the snow to the building.  I was going to say the warmth of the building, but in truth it wasn’t much warmer than the motor car had been. One naked bulb hung in a hallway and an uncarpeted stair disappeared into darkness.

            “Caught in the storm, were you?” the inn-keeper asked. Now we could see her she was a big boned, cart-horse of a woman with little darting eyes in a pudgy face with heavy jowls.

            I shot a swift glance at Darcy, praying he wouldn’t make a facetious comment along the lines that we were actually heading for the Riviera and took a wrong turn.

            “We were heading for Scotland but the road is closed.” I said before he could answer.

            “Aye. We heard that on the wireless,” she said. “Reckon it will take days, don’t they? So you’ll be wanting a room then?”

            “We will,” Darcy said.

            “I’ve just the one room,” she said. “The others are occupied.  You are a married couple, I take it?”  And she gave us a hard stare, trying to see a wedding ring through my gloves, I suspect.

            “Of course,” Darcy said briskly. “Mr and Mrs. Chomondley-Fanshaw. That’s spelled Featherstonehaugh, by the way.”

            I fought back a desire to giggle. She was still eyeing us suspiciously. “I don’t care how it’s spelled,” she said. “We don’t go for airs and graces in this part of the country. As long as good honest folk have the brass to pay, we don’t care how many hyphens they have in their names.”

            “Right then,” Darcy said. “If you’d be good enough to show us the room?”

            She didn’t budge but pointed. “Turn right at the top of the stairs and it’s at the end of the hall. Number Thirteen.”

            Then she reached into a cubby and handed us a key. “Breakfast from seven to nine in the dining room. Breakfast is extra. Oh, and if you want a bath you’ll have to wait till morning. Hot water is turned off between ten and six. And the bath’s extra too.”

            Darcy gave me a look but said nothing. “I’ll take you up first then go and get the bags,” he said. “Come on.” 

            I followed him up the narrow stair. An icy draft blew down at us.

            “Are there fires in the rooms?” Darcy turned back to ask the landlady who was still standing there watching us.

            “No fireplace in that room,” she said.

            “As I suppose a cup of hot chocolate is out of the question?”  There wasn’t much hope in his voice.

“Kitchen closed at eight.” She turned her back and walked into the darkness of the hallway.

“We don’t have to stay here,” Darcy whispered to me. “There must be proper hotels in  York. It’s not that far now.”

            “It’s still almost fourteen snowy miles. And we’ve no guarantee anyone else has a room,” I said. “If all the roads northward are closed…” In truth I felt close to tears. It had been a long day starting with helping to dress the bride at Kensington Palace, then the ceremony at St. Margaret’s Westminster, then the reception at Buckingham Palace and the long, cold, snowy drive. All I wanted to do was curl up into a little ball and go to sleep.

            The floorboards creaked horribly as we tiptoed down the hall. Number Thirteen was about the gloomiest room I had ever seen—and I had grown up in a Scottish castle noted for its gloominess. It was small, crowded with miss-matched furniture dominated by an enormous carved wardrobe that took up the one wall where the ceiling didn’t slope. In the midst of this clutter was a narrow brass bed with a patchwork quilt on it. A naked bulb gave just enough anemic light to reveal sagging and stained curtains at the window and a small braided rug on the bare floor.

            “Golly!” I let out the childish exclamation before I remembered that I had resolved to be sophisticated from now on. “It is pretty grim, isn’t it?”

            “It’s bloody awful,” Darcy said. ‘Sorry for swearing, but if ever a room deserved the word bloody, this is it. Let’s just get out of here while we can. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t kill off the guests during the night and make them into pies.”

            I started laughing at it. “Oh Darcy. What are we doing here?”


RHYS: So Crowned and Dangerous comes out in August and is already available for pre-order. And my next book is TIME OF FOG AND FIRE, a Molly Murphy novel that is published March 1. I'll be putting up signing events on my website in a few days.  As to what I'm writing now... If I told you, I'd have to kill you.......