I’ve been doing revisions on my latest book and they’re taking almost as long as it did to write it in the first place.  Mainly because I’ve introduced a new character – who is going to be the hero in my next book.  I’ve never linked books before so this is an exciting new project.   

I have the character in mind but I don’t have an image yet. He’s going to be blonde with very blue eyes. Any suggestions as to who I can base him on?

Q:  Rianne, you must have been very surprised when you bumped into Javier considering he had walked out of your life six years earlier without so much as a word.

A: Indeed I was, I thought I must be seeing things. I couldn’t believe it was him at first.

Q: So what did you do? Did you confront him?

A: Actually, no. Since he was pretending not to know me I thought I’d play along with his game and see how far he was prepared to take it.

Q: That was very daring of you. How did it pan out?

A: It’s quite a story, I couldn’t believe he carried it on for so long. But then I discovered that he‘d lost his memory as the result of an accident. I felt awful then for not telling him that we’d once been lovers.

Q: Oh, dear.  I can see why you felt uncomfortable. But he must have wondered  why you’d said nothing?

A:  He did. He was quite angry. In fact he was very angry. He got over it though and asked me to help him trace his roots to see if it would jog his memory?

Q: And did it?

A: That would be telling, you’ll have to read the book to find out.

I know all writers work differently but for me there are distinct stages to writing a book, excluding the initial idea and any notes I might have made. This in itself takes time but for now it isn’t what this blog is about.

1. The first draft. In my case I need to make it as good as possible. I can’t simply get the story down and then fill in the blanks, I need the whole picture. This is naturally the longest part; many, many weeks of work.
2. Secondly I read it slowly through, make copious notes, expand some scenes, delete others. Check for repetition, and so on. Eventually reading it through again as a whole to make sure all is as it should be.
3. I then print a copy and have a final read through. But, oh dear, on paper it is not as perfect as I thought. Why does it read differently on paper than on the screen? So here I go again, checking, changing, scrutinising, until finally I am once more happy. Then I get someone else to read it, someone with a fresh eye. Someone who tells me it’s not the masterpiece I thought. This part doesn’t quite work. That part needs extra depth. And so on.
4. The changes are made and finally my baby is born and allowed out for all the world to see. And hopefully enjoy!

And just to let you know, I’m at Stage 3 of my latest book at the moment.

“There is something I feel I should tell you,” she says. “I actually knew you before your accident.”
There was a full minute’s silence in the room. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly. Rianne could hear her heart beating, echoing in her ears like the solemn toll of a bell. But other than that no sound disturbed them. Javier looked at her with a totally blank expression. There was nothing in his eyes to tell her what he was thinking, whether he even believed her.
Finally he spoke. ‘If this is the truth why have you not told me? Why have you waited until now?’ There was sudden sharp condemnation in his voice and his eyes glittered. ‘I have lived a nightmare. I searched my mind endlessly for clues, finally giving in when I realised it would do no good. Why have you held this back from me when you must have known how I felt? Or didn’t you care?’
Unable to cope with the accusation in his voice Rianne felt ice trickle down her spine, and yet she had brought it on herself. She should have told him in the very beginning. She should have told him everything. She could understand his rage. She would have felt the same. And now he was going to hate her forever more for hiding the truth.
‘Well?’
His voice thundered and Rianne shivered. Every corner, every nook and cranny in the room was filled with him now, with his anger, with his disbelief. ‘I – I wasn’t sure how to tell you.’ She compressed her lips into a straight line and tried to summon up moisture to her parched mouth. ‘I wasn’t even sure whether you would believe me.’
‘Believe you?’ he growled, ‘I’d grab at anything to find out about my past.’
He stood up and began to pace the room and because there was so very little space he walked around the couch on which she sat, not taking his eyes off her for one second. She felt like a tiny animal being circled by its predator and she sat bolt upright, her arms folded in self defence.
‘Well?’ he demanded when she remained silent. ‘You can’t drop a statement like that and not say any more. What do you know about me?’ His voice was gruff, filled with a different emotion. He didn’t even sound like the same man. And she had done this to him! She closed her eyes for a few seconds, wishing that they weren’t having this conversation right here where there was no escape.
‘You – you used to live here in England. You had fallen out with your father. You hadn’t seen him for many years. You never wanted to see him again.’
He stopped pacing and stood right in front of her, his brows beetled once more, his hands on his hips. ‘My home was here? Not in Spain?’
‘That’s right.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper, though she had no idea why. He had become a frightening figure towering over her, like a soldier in battle about to make his kill. It was a surreal situation, one that she wished she had not found herself in. Although in truth she had brought it on herself by not being honest with him from the very beginning.
‘Where exactly?’
‘Right here in Derbyshire. Actually we were – er, friends.’ She could not bring herself to say lovers. Not at this moment. Maybe later when he had calmed down, when he had digested the news. How she wished that her stupid heart would stop banging against her ribs. It was making her feel as though she had just run a marathon. As well she might have! This was the most difficult conversation she had ever had.
Suddenly he dropped down into the chair he had vacated earlier. It was better than him standing over her but nevertheless she could still feel the condemning vibes coming from him. His breathing was heavy, as though he had just run a marathon, and she could almost hear his brain working overtime.
When she dared to look at him his eyes were closed. She could not imagine the torment he must be going through trying to make sense of what she had just told him. And when suddenly his lids snapped open, his glittering eyes on her face, she felt as though he had physically pinned her to the seat.
‘Now I know why you were looking at me so intently in Barcelona,’ he growled. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me then?’
It was not a question she could easily answer. What was that saying about truth hurting? Well, she had not wanted to hurt him. Or was it herself she had been protecting? Only pain could come out of it. But she had to say something. ‘I wasn’t sure it would be wise.’
‘Maldeci!’ His curse was like the deep guttural sound of an injured animal and he jumped to his feet again to stand directly in front of her. ‘Not wise? What sort of convoluted logic is that? Who were you trying to protect, yourself or me?
His harsh accusations felt like missiles. And they hurt.
‘Look at me, dammit. I want to know the truth. Every little bit of it. It is the least you can do.’ Without warning he grabbed her hands and hauled her to her feet. Their eyes met and she shivered at the depth of anger she saw there.
‘Talk!’

This is the predicament Rianne faces in my book A Secret Too Far.

So back to my first question, what would you do?