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