Renee Conoulty: What Happens in Cornwall by T. A. Williams *Blog Tour - Excerpt, Guest Post and Giveaway**


Thursday, 6 August 2015

What Happens in Cornwall by T. A. Williams *Blog Tour - Excerpt, Guest Post and Giveaway**

Hey Everyone!

I'd love to introduce you to T. A. Williams, who is on tour with his latest book, What Happens in Cornwall.

Firstly, my name isn't T A. It's Trevor. I write under the androgynous name T A Williams because 65% of books are read by women. In my first book, "Dirty Minds" one of the (female) characters suggests the imbalance is due to the fact that men spend too much time getting drunk and watching football. I couldn't possibly comment. Ask my wife...
I've written all sorts: thrillers, historical novels, short stories and now I'm enjoying myself hugely writing humour and romance. Romantic comedies are what we all need from time to time. Life isn’t always very fair. It isn’t always a lot of fun, but when it is, we need to embrace it. If my books can put a smile on your face and maybe give your heartstrings a tug, then I know I’ve done my job.
I‘ve lived all over Europe, but now I live in a little village in sleepy Devon, tucked away in south west England. I love the place. That’s why you’ll find leafy lanes and thatched cottages in most of my books. Oh, yes, and a black Labrador. 

I've been writing since I was 14 and that is half a century ago. However, underneath this bald, wrinkly exterior, there beats the heart of a youngster. My wife is convinced I will never grow up. I hope she's right.

Connect with Trevor via

Guest Post

The publishing process – from an author’s point of view

   One of the greatest things about getting a publishing contract is that you get to work with a professional editor. Writing is a solitary pastime. We writers sit there and make it up, all the time wondering if others will like what we’ve written. Up until I got my first contract with Carina UK, the only people who had ever read my stuff were my friends and my long-suffering wife. Friends rarely do any more than say, ‘Great. I really enjoyed that. Well done.’ And they say that even though it has taken them three months to plough through the manuscript (if they have). My wife is a bit more direct (you should hear what she says about my clothes), but, when all’s said and done, she will always tend to be supportive, rather than confrontational.

   Having a professional read your work is a real eye-opener. I imagine that long hours are spent at editor school learning how to tell writers politely that what they have written is crap. Well, hopefully not total crap, but in need of serious pruning, retuning or rewriting. And doing that without injuring the fragile self-esteem of the poor author, cowering in his or her garret, dreading the arrival of the e-mail, is no mean feat.

   So, what does an editor bring to a manuscript? First of all, and I can’t emphasise this enough, they have the ability to see beyond the book to the buying public. They know what sells. They will suggest changes to the plot, characters and locations that will enhance the book’s chances of making it in the immensely competitive world of publishing. Secondly, they have read hundreds and hundreds of books of all shapes and sizes. They can see things the author can’t. As an author, it’s your baby, your creation. You are too close to it. The editor can shine an impartial light upon it and that is priceless.

   After the first round of editing (this is often called the Structural Edit), the author and the editor arrive at a version that satisfies both of them. At least, that’s what should happen. Whether Richard Adams really was told to rewrite Watership Down, but without the bunnies, is debatable, but some changes take longer to make than others. Anyway, after that, the manuscript goes for Copy Editing, aka proof-reading. This means it gets shunted off to another type of editor. This is (I imagine, never having met one in the flesh) a man or woman d’un certain âge, probably wearing a cardigan and fuelled by countless cups of herbal tea. There’s probably a cat somewhere around them as well. They worship at the feet of Lynn Truss on a daily basis. Anyway, they go through the book, changing colons to semi-colons, correcting spelling and checking whether the Marquis’s whip was in his left hand or his right hand.

   At long last, after this second round of corrections has been made and approved, the manuscript moves off to the Digital People to be turned into an e-book. The Digital People are probably around 15 years old, wear big headphones and live on Red Bull. They are the sort of people you need when your computer eats your manuscript that you hadn’t backed up. They probably couldn’t care a hoot about your manuscript, but they magically turn it from Microsoft Word into an Epub file.

   And that’s it. Next step fame and fortune. Well a little bit of fame would do, really.

What Happens in Cornwall by T. A. Williams

For a very British summer holiday…
When archaeologist Sam realises her relationship is as dead as the skeletons she’s exhuming, she knows it’s time to make a change. But with bills to pay her options are limited…until a discovery on Rock Island in Cornwall gives her a reason to escape…
Head to the Cornish coast!
In Cornwall, questions are thrown up at every turn: who is the glamorous owner of Rock Island that the paparazzi are so interested in? How has the irresistible, but impossibly arrogant, history professor James Courtney managed to get so far under Sam’s skin? And will it ever stop raining so Sam can lose the cagoule and sip a cool drink in the sun? One thing’s for sure: there’s never been a holiday quite like this one!
Enjoy a summer of surprises and romance with What Happens in Cornwall…, the perfect retreat for fans of Fern Britton.

Purchase links

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At nine-thirty on the Sunday evening, fortified by a large glass of Chardonnay each and bearing a bottle of Rioja as an offering, they turned up at the party. It wasn’t in a scruffy terraced house in the heart of student town, but in a fine Georgian villa, high on the hill above the university, with a terrific view across the historic city. Even more surprising was the fact that the music was provided, not by a tattooed DJ with an earring and a couple of battered loudspeakers, but by a string quartet set up under a pergola of exquisite white roses. As they rounded the side of the house and took in the scene, both of them stopped dead in astonishment. They glanced at each other, the same thought on both their minds.

‘Bugger! We should have dressed up.’ Sam looked down at her shorts and regretted her decision not to go with a dress. Beside her, Becky was doing her best to tug her very short skirt down to her knees without baring her bottom.

‘There’s something about Bach, isn’t there?’

They turned towards the voice. It emanated from a tall man, probably in his early forties, with a patrician accent and immaculately styled long brown hair. He was wearing jeans and a plain white shirt. Samantha began to feel a bit less conspicuous about her choice of clothes. He smiled down at them. ‘Miles Vernon, Professor Miles Vernon. And you are?’ He held out his hand.

He was very good-looking and he knew it. Sam read the interest in his eyes, but she took a surreptitious step backwards, definitely not attracted to him and keen to avoid his getting the wrong idea. At the same time, she didn’t want to appear rude to a professor, even if his was a new name to her. But she needn’t have worried. Before she had time to extend her own hand, Becky had grasped his with both hands and was pumping it up and down. She beamed up at him. ‘Hello, Professor Vernon. I’m Becky and this is Samantha. We’re PhD students in the Archaeology department.’ She paused, then added for clarification, ‘At the university.’

Sam had a hard job restraining herself from giggling. Miles Vernon probably didn’t realise just how close he was to having his clothes ripped off him, Viking-style. You didn’t need a PhD to see the ‘target acquired’ look in Becky’s eyes. Sam waited until Becky had reluctantly released him and then shook hands with him in her turn. ‘Good evening. Is this your lovely house? Is this your party?’

He smiled at her, exposing a set of immaculate white teeth as he did so. ‘Good evening, Samantha.’ He pronounced it ‘Sementha’ and she repressed a shudder. ‘The answers are yes and yes. The house is indeed mine, and I thought I should do something for all my new friends at the university.’

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