It started with the taste but then became the touch. The cold skins, muddied by the earth, that lay warming against the treated wood of the bench. I felt the moss fleck away from their pulled roots, watched the soil drop back to where it belonged. It occurred to me that I might eat them, then; hold each firm around the trunk and rip my teeth through their tops. You would want to cook them, though, and make a meal of kindness. But these days I would happily have them raw, and after.
Over the last few weeks, my Bloodhound Books novels have had something of a makeover. Their names have changed (Copycat became The Copycat, while Play became The Watcher), and my own name has changed too. In a world where female authors are excelling in their chosen genres, it felt like the right time to shift away from the neutral C.S. and, for the first time ever, use Charlotte on the front cover of something.
In March the third and final installment of the DI Melanie Watton series will arrive. Before then, though, there's a huge amount of promotional material to look forward to, including Bloodhound Books' Daily Deals which currently sees The Copycat available on Kindle for just 99p.
So, to get you in the mood for a weekend read, I thought I'd push the boat out with a little preview from the book. Here's one of my favourite extracts from DI Melanie Watton's first story:
"DI Melanie Watton stepped over the police-tape cordon that surrounded the playing fields. The PCs in charge of manning the barrier batted back the crowds that tried to follow her through. There was a medley of photographers and reporters bound up with bloodthirsty civilians. Whatever their motivations, everyone was trying to get a good look at the scene of crime officers, the police constables, the arriving detectives. It was always the same, Melanie thought; where there was tragedy, there were happy onlookers.
She tried to drive out her distaste for the madding crowd as she walked closer to the incident tent, erected, Melanie assumed, over the body that was being examined. She cast a look around the surroundings – grey skies and muddied grounds from days upon days of rain – and she had to admire the determination to keep the crime scene clean, although it seemed likely that irreparable damage had already been done. As she approached the final cordon – a smaller, closer circle of trust that existed around the immediate crime scene – she was given overalls and shoe covers. From the corner of her vision, she spotted DC Chris Burton, manipulating herself into the same attire that Melanie had just been given.
‘I didn’t realise you were here already,’ Melanie said, leaning down to hook a plastic casing around her black boot.
‘I rushed. Early bird and all that.’ Chris sounded jovial as she zipped together her torso’s white plastic covering. She had always hated this gear. At her first crime scene, Chris had joked that the overalls made her feel like she was tucking herself into a body bag. It had been met with laughter by the team at the time, but she’d never quite escaped the feeling. She smoothed down the front of her suit and glanced at her boss who was zipping up her own protective gear.
The two officers made their way towards the small tent, housing the woman that had brought them all here. There was a hive of activity to pass through on their way though. Overalls continued to scour the surrounding areas, scraping samples from different parts of the playing fields, collecting whatever maybe-evidence they could find.
‘I’ve got something!’ one voice shouted and while Chris’s attention was pulled to the SOCO in question, Melanie stayed her course, pushing through the loose flaps of the evidence tent and arriving at the foot of a young woman – her skin mottled, her clothing muddied, and her life quite clearly extinguished.
‘I didn’t think anything in the world could get you away from that lab,’ Melanie said, crouching down to the hooded figure sitting cross-legged on the wet ground. ‘To what do we owe this honour?’
George Waller pulled down his medical mask revealing a pale face that was trying, but failing, to force a smile.
‘Truthfully, I wish I hadn’t bothered.’ Hands flat on the floor, he levered himself into a standing position and assessed the body splayed out before them both. ‘Suffocation, I’d guess, hence the bag.’ He pointed to the clear wrapping, still secured around the woman’s neck. ‘She struggled, hence the state of all this.’ He pointed to her parted legs, her widespread arms.
George shook his head. ‘I’ll know more when we’ve got her back at the lab, obviously, but cause of death is fairly clear. Time of death will be difficult, due to,’ he faltered, waved an arm beyond the tent as though gesturing to the general state of the world rather than the October weather. ‘As I said, we won’t know the fine details until we’ve had a proper look, and we won’t have a proper look until…’ he trailed off again. It looked as though something was troubling him but without more information, Melanie couldn’t guess at what.
‘What’s so bad about this one, George?’ Melanie knew how she sounded, but she didn’t have the patience to soften herself with a trying case already laid in front of her.
‘A couple of things, really.’ George crouched down to his open kit case. ‘Firstly, there’s this.’ He handed Melanie a clear evidence bag that contained a square of paper, no bigger than a few inches, on which was a handwritten message: Remember me?"
To find out what happens next, why not treat yourself to a Kindle download for the weekend? The Copycat is available just here.
Some of my students are struggling to get in the creative mindset, given the new lockdown restrictions that have been rolled out. I discussed one or two techniques with them last week but, as always, I stand by free writing as a way to loosen cogs. After all, "The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on." (Louis L'Amour)
This morning, before we talked about the nitty-gritty dirty work of editing, I gave my students five minutes to scribble ideas in response to a picture. And, because we need to practice what we preach, I joined in...
These things, as they often do, started innocently enough. But, like bad debt, I found the more I poured in the more I poured after, throwing good intention after bad. Addiction feels like a term that should be reserved for those worse off than me. But with every ring of, "Just once more," I felt sicker and sicker in myself - or, with myself. Like light chasing after shadow, good after bad, I promised this one - this very last one - would be a line in the sand. It was easier to make that promise, too, because I really didn't think I'd have the guts to steal someone's heart a second time.
Earlier this year I ran a number of online workshops for The Swan Theatre, looking at some of the most popular genres in writing. Now, I'm excited to launch another series! Starting in late November and carrying on into 2021, this new series will look at the nuts and bolts of writing, and the programme looks a little like this:
"Is there such thing as writer's block?" (Sunday, November 29)
"Planning, plotting, and pulling things together" (Sunday, December 13)
"Creating characters to carry a story" (Sunday, January 3)
"The Writing Life According To..." (Sunday, January 17)
All of these workshops will run from 11:00am, and last approximately one hour. The Zoom room will be open for entry from 10:50am, to allow from a prompt start.
The workshops cost £3 to attend and tickets can be bought now through the Worcester Rep website.
If you're looking for a little advice on the business side of writing, then you might be interested in a bonus workshop that I'm running for Tortive Theatre next month as well.
On December 5 I'll be running a "Marking Your Writing and Yourself" workshop, to talk you through how to make yourself even more attractive as a writing product. The workshop will also include information on building a social media profile, and learning to engage with digital communities.
This online workshop starts at 11:00am (and will last just over an hour), and it's £3 to purchase a ticket. However, if you sign up as a member to the Tortive Theatre website (which gives you access to all sorts of other creative wonders) then the workshop is completely free. You can find more information about that on the Tortive website just here.
If you have any questions about the planned workshops then please don't hesitate to contact me, or either of the represented organisations.
It was reading week last week, which meant that I wasn't joining in on any free writing activities with my students. I was, however, gifted the free time to start writing a new novel (hurrah). At the time of writing this post I'm around 13,500 words into the new book, and it's a mixture of joy and horror that's carrying me through the hours of writing. That said, this week I was back to free writing with my students, and this morning it occurred to me that I hadn't yet been brave enough to share the results.
It was always where we met - knees knocking beneath the table; fingers grazing at the counter-top while we both gestured towards the same cake; hands holding, only for a second, when we grabbed the teapot. I didn't much care for the confectioneries. I only wanted a quiet hour where we could laugh, and play at being young women in love, in plain sight of the boys who we might one day be married off to. It was an idea we laughed over - until someone asked. She didn't tell me. She only showed me the ring and refused a cake - said she was watching her waistline now, that she had to think of slimming into the dress.
I have no desire to move forward or back - only to sit. It took so long to find a quiet crevice. Here, nature is so loud that I can pretend the rest of the world doesn't really exist - that there's nothing beyond this crater.
How could the 17:05 into Birmingham be louder than breeze clapping through trees? The hum of the office lighting, how could that overshadow the short showers of small rocks on larger ones as another bit of earth breaks away?
No. Here, I can imagine quite easily that I haven't left anything behind at all.
When you're on the outside looking in, it can look a lot like those who are "making a living from writing" are doing just that. The reality, though, is a little different...
The writers who are making their money from writing aren't just marketing their books; they're marketing themselves. They're active on social media, engaged with their readers, spam-liking anything that might gain them followers. A little sad, perhaps, but certainly true, you are as much a product as your writing - and it's time to start cashing in!
In a one-off workshop planned for December 5th, I'll be teaming up with Tortive Theatre for a workshop on Marketing Your Writing. In the one hour special I'll talk about the different ways to engage with digital communities and build yourself a writing profile, before we close with practical guidance on how to build yourself some status on social media too.
The workshop is just £3 to attend, but (!) if you're a member of the Tortive Theatre website then it's absolutely free! So get yourselves booked in to come along for a chat about the marketing side of the writing life, to see how you might be able to manage yourself as well as your writing.
This semester I'm teaching a Writing and Location module at work. This year, I'm notably lacking in terms of locations. This module would ordinarily involve trips to various places around the West Midlands. However, in the times of COVID-19, class trips aren't exactly safe, and therefore other measures have to be taken.
Today I walked my students around the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew (after some introductory free writing to set the travel mood), and we used a bank of digital resources that were put together during lockdown, to make these gardens a more accessible landscape for those who couldn't visit.
No, it wasn't the same; there's no pretending otherwise. What it was, for me at least, was an insight into how the face of nature and location writing may well change in the midst of a pandemic.
In my continued mission to practice what I preach, I wrote along with my students through these new landscapes. So here are some of the fruits of an afternoon's travel.
Solomon Islands - Morning chorus
The leaves are bigger than my head - fanned, their hands are spread as though in anticipation of free falling birds who might swoop and lunge through these morning calls. I can almost taste the green, enveloped like a blanket around me, not that I would need one. The warmth is a paradox against home, where leaves now are falling out of season. Meanwhile here fires are still burning, and sun still very much awake.
It could be snow, if we were in the right landscape for it. The blossoms belong to the gateway, though, to mark a passage of time, and I know they all fit together although I don't fully understand how - which I suppose is the point of my gaining an education here.
It occurs to me, then, that perhaps this gateway is one that leads to knowledge.
The following pieces were written in response to several gardens at Kew. Footage of their growth and maintenance has been made available to track their summer progress: Slow TV: Summer at Kew
I wonder whether this is the quietest it's ever been. There are only satellite sounds - more like the ghost of something, and even though nature must have been that way, once, there is something unsettling about it here. Still, unsettling nature remains beautiful.
The plants have rooted with purpose and something about their posture gives that away - upright, important. I'd name them all if I could but instead I give them fake names: Beatrice; Olivia; Edith.
Today I gave my first year Creative Writing students the below image. They wrote from their hearts, about nostalgia and childhood and boiled sweets, gobbled on their favourite beaches. It was, and is, great to see young writers with such enthusiasm.
And, in my continued series of practicing what I preach, I wrote from the same prompt...
The sky is a fruit forest: apricots, strawberries, unripened blueberries and plums. I see it every night but somehow see it differently. It gives me a sense of an ending, watching the horizon close, as though God or someone like her had spent the whole day creating the perfect shade of blue, only to wash it all away, dissatisfied with her creation.
Perhaps that's what the sealine is, where coloured clouds meet water - maybe that's why we have our high tides.
He makes it impossible to check my phone, pulls so much on the lead and at such a pace that the text message becomes a blurred string of half-letters. I give up quickly and instead pocket the device as in-case-of-emergency measure, should we get lost in the woods and become storybook characters.
He only watches the ground, and I only watch him, therefore –
I see the bed of autumn, a blanket of stripped garments shed by the trees that guard this place, as though we’re walking through their wardrobe. I sometimes expect a reprimand for treading through their quarters, but it doesn’t come. He and I are allowed.
I asked my students to get local with their writing - meaning, consider a space that's particular to you. "Give me a description" was the initial task, which eventually became specific details, and then, after that, a memory...
It would make for a good long angle photograph. Trees and leaves have started to collapse in, making it either a fairytale landscape or the opening of a horror scene, depending on the time of day. But I do know there's a graveyard at the end.
I walk by mallow on the journey down the lane - some open and full, others just cracking their leaves. There are stinging nettles forming parts of the path, coupled with greenery that used to be daffodils. There is another track that branches off from this one, one we're not meant to go down, although the "No Entry" sign is missing.
It's the first time I've known flowers by name. I can recall my excitement at recognising the mallow as exactly that. On the way down I didn't know it, but on the way back - as though seeing wild bluebells and fox gloves frame the headstones had shaken something loose - I saw the paleness of the flowers.