Over at The Heroine Addicts, we’ve been talking about settings (my favourite) and it’s evolved into a little writing challenge.  We want to see how different authors approach different settings, especially a setting that’s strongly evocative, that means so much to so many… in this case, Frenchman’s Creek.

To find out more, visit us on the blog, but for now, here is my offering – and – oh! – how I enjoyed writing it!

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She undressed slowly, letting the clothes lie where they dropped. 

She’d dressed with such care that morning, but now it hardly mattered.  Her cream linen trousers were wet, stained with the salty liquid that soaked the bank of the creek and lent a sharp tang to the air.

Breathing deep, she slipped free of the last, carefully functional and conservative flesh-coloured scraps of underwear and stood shivering.  The breeze had been silent when she’d arrived – now it sifted the hair brushing her shoulders, sent the grasses sighing and the leaves of the oaks whispering among themselves.

Her heart was hammering.  Anyone could come, could see… she rubbed her arms, felt the roughening of goosebumps she hadn’t noticed rise.

Toeing off her sandals, the grass felt strangely sharp and strong under her feet.  She stepped forward, laying a hand on the sun-warmed stone beside her, basking like a seal where the emerald flies buzzed in lazy circles. 

As always, the first touch of the water was achingly cold.  She took a deep breath against the shock, forcing herself to take another step.  Estuarine mud oozed between her toes, but the bank sloped steeply and with another step she was deep enough to simply fall forward and slip beneath the surface.  She fought the urge to gasp, to choke.  Instead she let the current turn her, bringing her face naturally to the surface.  Ducking her head back, she washed the hair from her face, slicked it back with hands that trembled. 

Oh, but it was so good.  She ran her hands over her skin, feeling everything lift away, feeling immersed in the power of the water, washed clean by it.  Then she let herself gasp, let herself laugh.  A heron, far down the opposite bank, flapped into the air and drifted away upstream, leaving her alone.

Rolling with the current, she struck out, slicing the water with arms that quickly warmed to the work.  Stretching to the stroke, she swam downstream, past the elderly oak dipping its gnarled branches into the brine, past the fallen tree, lying like the bleached bones of some old leviathan.  Beyond the mouth of the creek, blue sky and blue sea met and melded, mirroring each other’s vastness, a heart-breaking promise of endless adventure.

She’d come here to draw a line, to put all of it behind her.  The swim hadn’t been part of the plan, but it had been an obvious choice, standing there on the bank, knowing all the terror of the past year was over.  The water had called to her.  She’d wanted nothing more than to plunge into its healing depths, to let the coldness wake her, the current cleanse her.

She’d come to Frenchman’s Creek seeking an ending.  She’d never expected to find a beginning, too.

The smile that curved her cheek felt unnatural, unaccustomed.  She felt clean.  Alive.  Free. 

Breathing hard, she angled close to the bank, seeking the slack water.  There she idled a while, sculling languidly back to where she’d started, feeling the delicious contrast the cold water and sun on her face, her breasts and belly.  When she reached the sun-warmed stone, she lifted her head to look.

He was still alive, just.  Sprawled on the rock by the water’s edge, dripping blood that bloomed into russet roses in the living water.  It didn’t matter.  The water would wash that clean, too.  She could hear him breathing, a sound like waves on a shingle shore. 

As she watched, the last drop eased from the scarlet ribbon that painted his arm.  It gathered in the dark hairs at his wrist where the broken watch gleamed silver.  But it did not fall.

An oyster catcher skimmed by, calling, a flash of black and white and scarlet beak.  She breathed deep, tasting sea air and sweet-sharp water.

Smiling, she let her arms drift wide, fingers teased and tugged by the outgoing tide, her palms cupping the force of it.  She lay back, till the water in her ears silenced all sound but the song of the sea itself, and let the current take her.

When you meet that special someone, you talk about falling in love.  Sometimes, you meet some special people and fall in friends.

It was a bit like that at the recent RNA Conference at fabulous Greenwich.  Something in the air?  A wonderful coincidence of perfectly suited people?  Quite a lot (really, QUITE a lot) of wine?

Who knows?  Whatever the cause, I have now taken a step of commitment I never thought I would – I am a group blogger!

Join me, along with friends old and new Susanna Kearsley, Julie Cohen, Brigid Coady, Liz Fenwick and Christina Courtenay at The Heroine Addicts.  We’ll be blogging roughly Thursdays and Sundays, and since we all write very different types of books, it’s going to be a fascinating mix, I think.  Read us, follow us, stalk us – you know the drill!

Today I’m musing on the nature of time…. posting about finding time for writing, in the big ways and the small ones.

And yes, I STILL know I need to update this site.  I’m working on it, I swear. WordPress help files scare me…..

You can catch me today at Darlene’s fab blog, Finding The Write Words, talking about inspiration and characters, among other things.  Go read, comment, join in, enjoy….

Day Five – Family Voices, or, Today We Will Be Mostly Saying, “Argh!”

Today I’m participating in a mass blogging! WOW! Women on Writing has gathered a group of blogging buddies to write about family relationships. Why family relationships? We’re celebrating the release of Therese Walsh’s debut novel today. The Last Will of Moira Leahy (Random House, October 13, 2009) is about a mysterious journey that helps a woman learn more about herself and her twin, whom she lost they were teenagers. Visit the Muffin (on the 13th) to read what Therese has to say about family relationships and view the list of all my blogging buddies. And make sure you visit www.theresewalsh.com to find out more about the author.

Day Five:-  Logan Botanic Garden

Hobble:-  2 miles
Words:- 4,386
Food:-  jacket tattie and beans
Soundtrack:-  Moby again.

Today is a day of screams and grunts.  I am very stiff, and very tired.  I thought it would be my ankles and knees that were protesting today, afterall, my left knee felt like a spit-roasted melon last night: hot, swollen and knifed.

But no.  No, today it’s all about the big muscles in the front of the thighs.  Crouching down to pick something up requires a handhold.  There is a distinct delay between the nervous impulse to stand, and the actual movement of muscle to obey….

I am blistered, too, sadly.  I always think of a blister on a hill walk as a sign that I’ve failed, somehow, that my boot-and-foot management didn’t pass muster.  Dad would be tutting and shaking his head.  But the sad fact is I have lovely feet, tractable, behaving themselves, reasonably attractive, reliable feet – right up to the point I put them in walking boots.  Walking sandals, yes.  Approach shoes (fusion boot/trainer footwear) definitely.  Boots, oh no.  I have this recurrent problem of the tendons under my left toes cramping.  It’s agonising and really difficult to manage or prevent. 

I’ve found that if I use good quality (sorbothane, how we love thee) insoles, and DON’T use thick socks, this is minimised, and only really turns up when I start to get dehydrated.  BUT the thinner socks don’t provide enough protection for my heels and I get blisters.  Compeed is good, and keeps me going a few more miles, but Compeed does not like, no sireee, he does not like, the soaking the feet in peat bogs approach.  Alas.

So, stiffness, a blister or two, and a couple of bruises.  Not bad, really.  Considering.*

The thought of staying in the cottage and slowly sitffening up all day had me out and on the road shortly after breakfast.  I’ve headed for the Logan Botanic Garden, one of the most important gardens in the UK.

And, even thought I’m holidaying alone, I’ve brought my family with me.

Yesterday I had Dad on my shoulder whispering encouragement and instruction.  He taught me about walking (and running – he used to do fell running, jogging up and down mountains we’d struggle to walk up and down) and climbing in the hills.  He taught me how to pick my footing, to take little, fast steps on ascent, and know where my feet would land two or three steps ahead on descent.  He taught me to place my foot sideways on steep, uncertain terrain, how to recognise the safe and the unsafe.  It was Dad showed me how to read a map and use a compass – when I refresh myself on these skills before a walk, I can almost see his hands in front of me, smoothing the map and following the contour lines.  Dad’s voice, and his teachings, are with me every day in the mountains, even though he can’t be with us anymore in the flesh. 

But that was yesterday.  And today the voice on my shoulder is Mum’s.

Dad taught me to walk safely.  Mum told me it was the little yellow blooms of tormentil and the fire spikes of bog asphodel I was treading on.  Dad showed me where bogs were treacherous, Mum showed me the insect eating plants that grew there – the little green fly-papers of butterwort, the misty red tentacles of the tiny sundew.  I give my respects to the birch and the rowan, the sedge and the lady’s smock, calling them by name because Mum introduced us.

Now, today, I’m conscious that I’m in a place that would give Mum as much pleasure as it’s giving me.  I’ve only been as far as the entrance, the ticket office, and the coffee shop (hazelnut cappuccino!  And it’s good!) but already I’ve had three, “oooh, Mum you have to see this moments.”  I don’t have Mum’s botanic knowledge.  I only know that she’d be intrigued by the double nasturtiums, awed by the flowering cordeline, and knocked out by the big house-leek-on-stalk-type things in purple.  (Mum?  What are they called again?)

EDIT – Mum says they’re eoniums!  Thanks Mum!

See, I said I didn’t have the botanic knowledge….

I’m taking lots of pictures, and thinking about how to get them to her.

I like holidaying alone, just once in a while.  But I love that my family comes too, all the time. 

*Actually, pretty awful.  By the evening I was snivelling.  It never ceases to amaze me how far we can actually make a body perform beyond its comfort zone.  Ow.

By Therese Walsh

A LOST SHADOW
Moira Leahy struggled growing up in her prodigious twin’s shadow; Maeve was always more talented, more daring, more fun. In the autumn of the girls’ sixteenth year, a secret love tempted Moira, allowing her to have her own taste of adventure, but it also damaged the intimate, intuitive relationship she’d always shared with her sister. Though Moira’s adolescent struggles came to a tragic end nearly a decade ago, her brief flirtation with independence will haunt her sister for years to come.

A LONE WOMAN
When Maeve Leahy lost her twin, she left home and buried her fun-loving spirit to become a workaholic professor of languages at a small college in upstate New York. She lives a solitary life now, controlling what she can and ignoring the rest–the recurring nightmares, hallucinations about a child with red hair, the unquiet sounds in her mind, her reflection in the mirror. It doesn’t help that her mother avoids her, her best friend questions her sanity, and her not-quite boyfriend has left the country. But at least her life is ordered. Exactly how she wants it.

A SHARED PAST
Until one night at an auction when Maeve wins a keris, a Javanese dagger that reminds her of her lost youth, and happier days playing pirates with Moira in their father’s boat. Days later, a book on weaponry is nailed to her office door, followed by anonymous notes, including one that invites her to Rome to learn more about the blade and its legendary properties. Opening her heart and mind to possibility, Maeve accepts the invitation, and with it, a window into her past. Ultimately she will revisit the tragic November night that shaped her and Moira’s destinies, and learn that nothing can be taken at face value, as one sister emerges whole and the other’s score is finally settled.

Note: To read reviews about The Last Will of Moira Leahy, please visit Therese’s website: http://theresewalsh.com/News_Reviews/news_reviews.html

 About the author, Therese Walsh:

Therese is the co-founder of Writer Unboxed, a blog for writers about the craft and business of genre fiction. Before turning to fiction, she was a researcher and writer for Prevention magazine, and then a freelance writer. She’s had hundreds of articles on nutrition and fitness published in consumer magazines and online.

She has a master’s degree in psychology.

Aside from writing, Therese’s favorite things include music, art, crab legs, Whose Line is it Anyway?, dark chocolate, photography, unique movies and novels, people watching, strong Irish tea, and spending time with her husband, two kids and their bouncy Jack Russell.

Therese’s website: http://theresewalsh.com
Therese’s blog: http://theresewalsh.com/blog.html
Writer Unboxed: http://www.writerunboxed.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/ThereseWalsh
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/therese.walsh  

THERESE!  Many, many congratulations on the release of your debut novel, The Last Will of Moira Leahy!  It’s been a honour seeing its journey. 

After the unalloyed fun of the last few blogs, it’s something a bit more thoughtful and business-y today.  I’m blogging at Writer Unboxed, as the guest of Therese Walsh (there’s a lot of buzz about Therese’s upcoming debut, The Last Will of Moira Leahy, keep a watch on that one!) about writing for an Independent Publisher.

I asked a few of my Medallion Press colleagues for their thoughts, too, so it’s a bonus blog!

Today I’m the guest of the fabulous Romance Bandits, giving away a copy of Dangerous Lies and some lovely Moroccan Rose lotions from The Body Shop.

Don’t forget, if you want to be in the drawing for a Grand Prize of lots of goodies, you need to sign up to my newsletter (signup in the sidebar on the homepage!).

Today (later – it’s at US time again) I’m at the Writers At Play blog, talking about crazy family stories…. comment for a change to win a signed copy of Dangerous Lies!