The Official S. J. Bolton Blog

I've just e mailed the first draft of my fourth book to my agent. Friends and family greet the news with comments like: 'That must feel so great! What are you doing to celebrate?

Absolutely nothing is the honest truth, because all I feel at these moments is a rather odd sense of loss.

For several months now, these characters have been with me for just about every waking moment. Their story has become another life for me, that I've lived in parallel with my own and now that it's told, I find them slipping away from me, getting fainter by the day, already little more than ghosts.

I miss them. I've learned to love them these past few months: Solvay, Mark and Dana (yes, she's back) and without their constant company I find myself strangely bereft. I imagine I'll feel like this when my son leaves home. 

The truth is, writing a novel never feels like hard work for me. It's the most enormous fun. The research and planning can be tough, although I rather enjoy it, and the editing process can be (and usually is) absolute torture, but the first draft is a pure joy. This one especially so. I've loved writing this book. And now the fun's over. 

My sister and I are planning the official launch of Blood Harvest, due out in just over two months. As the book is set in my home county of Lancashire, and based on the real life story of when my sister and her family built a big new house on the moors by an old church, we've decided the launch will be in the north. This does mean inviting people I haven't seen in twenty years. Scary thought. If they look old, does that mean I do too? Are they going to come armed with endless embarrassing stories? Will there be photographs? Maybe it's not such a good idea.  Too late to back out, though, my sister's  bought a new frock.

First written: August 5, 2009

I've never really been one for the crime novel.  Odd really, when you consider I proudly tell anyone who asks (and quite a few who don't) that I write them for a living.  But the traditional village mystery/ rampant serial killer/ police procedural has never really rocked my boat as we say in sailing circles. 

So I do rather come unstuck when I'm asked to talk about the genre.  Who is my favourite crime author, I'm often asked.  Which crime writer most influenced me, is another one I struggle with.  Because the truth is, I always want to say…, no, I really shouldn't, I'll get into terrible bother…,oh sod it, I'm going to… the crime writer I was most influenced by was…. 

Charlotte Bronte 

Now, come on, stay with me for a bit. Jayne Eyre is one of the darkest, creepiest and most exciting thrillers ever written. Okay, it's also a bit of a romance and all credit to the author for keeping such a strong sub-plot running alongside what is, first and foremost, the most tremendous mystery story.  I mean, what is going on in that spooky old house?  Who is stalking the corridors at night? What dark secret is tormenting the brooding hero? And where is all the blood coming from? And, on top of all that, it's so beautifully written. In Bronte's day, nobody had to worry about the distinction between literary fiction and the bloody good read because Charlotte (and her sisters) had both down to a tee.  And while we're on the subject of the superbly penned classic mystery story, what about Bleak House? Great Expectations? Oliver Twist?  That's before I even get started on Wilkie Collins, Nathanial Hawthorne or Edgar Allan Poe. 

Because the truth is, the classics have more to teach us about writing first class suspense books then most living authors.  

I say "most" advisedly, because there are some still-living authors whom I revere.  I'd love to have Dick Francis's skill with an opening line, or be able to pen a first chapter on a par with Grisham.  I am in absolute awe of the research and plotting ability of Dan Brown, of the forensic skill of Cornwell, Reichs and Beckett, of JK Rowling's colourful and funny imagination. I would give anything to be able to break the reader's heart in a single sentence like Winston Graham. (Look him up - actually, don't - I have a feeling he's no longer a "still living" author.) 

These days I read very little but contemporary crime. I have to keep up with the competition.  But given the chance to read for pleasure, I invariably turn to the books that, although dark, full of mystery, crammed with suspense and with all sorts of improbable twists and turns, have probably never appeared on a crime shelf.

First written: June 14, 2009

You know what they say about middle age: it's always about a decade ahead of where you are at any given point in time. There comes a point, though, when you know that particular stage of life isn't just waiting round the corner anymore; it's lurking, sniggering into its hand, steeling itself to leap out and yell, "Got you!" 

And there are those unmistakable signs, that tell you middle age is decidedly on the horizon, if not lurching its way up the next street. Husband and I have fun, from time to time, trying to come up with new indicators of middle age. For example, you know you're middle aged when:

Your reaction to rainfall is that it will be good for the gardens. 

Your pelvic floor just isn't up to the mothers' race any more. 

You live in a street that young people come home to for Christmas. 

Words and phrases come out of your mouth that you last heard your mother utter thirty years ago. 

Just lately, we've found we can tick just about all those boxes. 

I suspect I've become extra- sensitive to the business of age having spent a fair amount of time the last couple of years talking to journalists. They always, to a man, woman and cub reporter, want to know how old you are.  And you have to tell 'em. Because, "None of your effing business' is unlikely to result in favourable copy in the Oxford Mail. Nor can you lie. Knock a few months off and your in-box will be inundated with people who remember you from when you had licorice on your face and hand-me-down navy blue knickers. 

Earlier this year, my French publishers, the lovely Fleuve Noir, embarked upon a rather innovative marketing campaign. They had six new, young (ish) female crime writers to promote. First up, they put us in a calendar.  I was Miss February (see above).  How cool is that?  Then they did a Wanted poster, in the style of the old wild west, with pictures of each of us.  Under each photograph appeared our names, country of residence and our age: Robin Young, UK, age 34; Chelsea Cain, USA, age 35; Sharon Bolton, UK, age unknown. 

Now, Fleuve Noir knew my age only too well, but clearly honesty isn't the best policy when you're trying to promote the new "black babes" of French crime writing. No doubt, being French, they did a bit of creative air-brushing on the picture as well. And I'm female enough to be grateful they did. 

I'm wondering if the solution is take a leaf out of Clara Benning's book. Clara, the protagonist of Awakening, has no mirrors in her house. She avoids reflective surfaces like most women avoid small black creatures with many legs. As Clara knows, mirrors only work if you approach with care, in soft light, at the right angle. Let them catch you unawares and you're going to have to accept that the wrinkles are there whether you're tired or not, that those extra five pounds really do show and the bone structure around your jaw-line probably won't be seen again this lifetime. 

And that, as any woman in her forties will tell you, is hard. What do we listen to? Our hearts, telling us the better part of our lives is still to come; or our heads, saying 'get real girl, it's all downhill from here'? 

I'm with Clara, I've decided. The mirrors are going. Because without them, I can still be that slender girl of 20, with waist-length red hair, striding through life in search of adventure.

First written: June 13, 2009

This morning, the unprecedented happened Chez Bolton. We had a lie-in. I'm married, you understand, to a man who thinks the lark a rather sluggish bird, feels cheated if he misses a sunrise and is on first name terms with the milkman; who just plain can't sleep. Today, it was nearly 8am when the dulcet tones of our son in the bathroom dragged us from the depths of Lethe's spring. 

I put it down to the frenzied exercise of the night before. And before you jump to the obvious, please see previous post on same subject. No, I'm talking about modern jive, a craze that's sweeping southern England faster than swine flu. Suddenly, church halls and primary schools throughout the Home Counties are inundated with the middle-aged, middle classes, attempting to master the shoulder sweep, the sway and the hip weave. 

It's spicy stuff, modern jive: highly flirtatious, deeply suggestive and involving prolonged contact with unfamiliar bodies.  It's going down very well in the Chilterns.

After two sessions, our class has self-divided into two groups: the stay-with-your-own-partners and the swappers. Variety is the spice, Mr B and I agree, and so we're getting to know some of our neighbours rather better than we once expected. Name me a man in my street and I can tell you his exact height, the extent of muscle definition on his shoulders and whether he knows the difference between a woman's waist and her hip.

Just one complaint, though. To a man, my new dancing partners are just not firm enough. The hand in mine feels limp, the feet could go in any direction, the movement is vague, uncertain. I find myself taking charge.

'Ladies, you have to let the men lead,' calls Patrick from the stage, and he's always looking directly at me. I try to be submissive. I fail. Patrick takes me by the hand and does all the movements out of order so I have no choice but to follow him. He is very firm; it all becomes blissfully easy.  I think I might be developing a crush on Patrick. 

I'm sorry, but there really is something wonderfully sensuous about dancing with a man who knows what he's about. It just seems so rare in Britain to meet a man who not only knows how to move himself around a dance floor, but can actually move you too.  But I tell you something, if men knew how erotically charged a good dance can be, they'd all be taking modern jive classes.  And sod the Saturday morning football and rugby; they'd be signing their sons up for ballet class. 

I've been trying hard to capture this sensual possibility in my latest book. Just  before things get really nasty, hero Harry drives Evi up to a high Tor in the Lancashire Pennines. It's early November, late at night, and they watch fireworks exploding across the moors. Then they dance, to Springsteen's Dancing in the Dark on the car stereo. Harry and Evi know they cannot get involved with each other. This one dance might be the only moment of closeness they ever know.

So hard, to capture the erotic possibilities of dancing with a new partner for the first time. Try interchanging song lyrics with snatches of dialogue and copyright laws jump up and bite you. Talking about rhythm and movement seems straight out of Mills and Boon. In the end I just had to write about the heat from Harry's neck against Evi's face, his hand, ice-cold in hers and the wind that can't seem to decide whether to join in the dance or hurl them both off the edge of the world.

Of course, She Who Believes The Red Pen Is Mightier Than The Sword may well decide it doesn't work but I'll always have the picture in my head to console me: Harry and Evi, dancing amongst the fireworks on the crest of the moor, falling in love. 

I've finished book three. (Probably)  It still has to be read and approved by a whole army of husbands, agents, editors, sales and publicity people but at least I know it's ready for that. It is as good as I can make it. The Blood Harvest. Published in 2010. (Fingers crossed)

First written: June 12, 2009

Apparently, my postings on this site are not the thing at all. Bloggers don't want to read about snakes, deviant churches and badgers rising from the dead, I've been told. They want to know about me. What I do with my day? How I spend my time.

Trust me, you don't.

There is absolutely nothing in this world less interesting than the life of the average writer. I'm not talking about the mega-stars now, who jet around the world on promotional tours and who probably have someone else to write their books. I'm talking about 99% of the world's writing population. Those who actually write.

My friend Adrian (former detective with London's Metropolitan police and my special adviser on all things police related) thinks I should make it up. He has a point. Inventing exciting lives seems to be what I do best, so why not invent my own.

There's a knock at the back door. I peer from the window. Rain drops are shining on the tight black curls of the man below me. His sinewy frame is taught with expectation. I take a deep breath and go downstairs …

Like I could ever keep that nonsense up. He's come to mow the lawn, of course. It's Mark, the gardener, the dog loves him. 

Well, don't say you weren't warned, here is my typical day. 

6.30am approx: Dog pokes wet and slimy nose under the sheets. Time to get up. Spend next hour and a half bullying child into eating, dressing, abluting and climbing into the car that takes him to school.

8.00am: Set off with dog for walk. Lose dog. Spend hour looking for dog. Threaten dog with Blue Cross Dogs Home.

9.00am: Stare at computer screen and move fingers rapidly up and down.

12 noon: Wander round house thinking really must load dishwasher, unload washing machine, remove maggots from bottom of fridge. 

1.00pm: Read over morning's work. Despair.

3.00pm: Collect son from school. Feed, wash and exercise son. Put son to bed.

8.00pm: Scrape maggots off remaining contents of fridge and serve up for dinner.

9.00pm: Stare at TV screen.

10.00pm: Bed. 

Of course I've also, in those hours, clambered through abandoned chalk mines, gone head to head with the world's most venomous snake and fallen deeply in love for the first time in my life. I've learned that the south west of England is rich in underground oil reserves. I've also received an e mail from a woman on the other side of the world, who I will never meet, but who wanted me to know that she really, really enjoyed reading my book and that I must not, under any circumstances, stop writing.

She needn't worry. I wouldn't change my life for anything.