I almost always have music playing when I’m writing or editing. I put together playlists for each book so I can get myself in the right mood. Here are all the songs I’ve been listening to while writing and editing Her Runaway Lady, a sapphic romance set in Paris in the 1880s. The setting is a Belle Epoque That Never Was but the music in this playlist, titled Sapphos, is all over the place.
It includes Fever Ray, k.d. lang, Billie Eilish, Unwoman, Sinead O’Connor, Morphine, Satie, songs from the Moulin Rouge soundtrack, Cat Stevens, Kate Bush, Baby Rose, Girlpool, Suzanne Vega, yeule, Saint Avangeline, Kiki Rockwell, Aimee Mann, Nouvelle Vague, Florence + the Machine, Christine and the Queens, Julien Baker, dodie, India, Tove Lo, Cecile Chaminade, Arlo Parks, Floor Cry, chloe moriondo, Debussy, Jill Tracy, Willow, and Sharon Van Etten.
These songs have ALL the feels of two young women falling in love but resisting that with everything they’ve got.
If you listen to it, leave a comment and let me know what your favorite track is.
A fine cup of tea at Betty’s Tea Room in York, U.K.
So I have a dusty partial manuscript of a lesbian contemporary romance hanging about. This is a scene I wrote that sets up the main character’s plotline but won’t be in the actual book. I thought it would be a fun read.
Tea
Ginny stood in her tiny kitchen shuffling through bags and canisters of tea. The musty, floral, smoky dust drifting out of the cupboard tickled her nose. She pried open a brightly patterned metal tin full of green tea leaves and sniffed. Her wide mouth twisted and she shut the lid. Nope. Not this morning. She grabbed another canister, catching a couple of bags that slithered out of the cupboard.
“Eric, what kind of tea do you want? I can’t decide,” she called over her shoulder.
Her best friend slouched over the counter, perching on a bar stool. He shrugged. His face had a greenish tinge and his eyes were still smudged with black eyeliner. Last night had turned into this morning and neither of them had slept. Eric’s drag show had dragged on into the wee hours. A cup of tea before crashing had seemed like a good idea but Ginny’s tired brain couldn’t make a decision and apparently neither could Eric.
She sighed. “Fine, my English breakfast as usual. I just hope the milk hasn’t gone off. I meant to get some yesterday.” The giant tin of her favorite black tea was already on the counter. Ginny scooped heaping tablespoons of leaves into her trusty brown teapot and tapped her fingers, waiting for the water to boil. The kettle always took ages. Maybe one day she’d buy one of those fancy Japanese water boilers that Eric had. Maybe one day she wouldn’t struggle to pay rent and the water boiler would seem like a reasonable purchase.
The whistling kettle pierced the air and they both winced. It had been a long night and Ginny had lost track of how many drinks she’d tossed back. All of her favorite drag queens had been at the show and they all insisted on buying her a drink. She couldn’t say no. It was their way of showing gratitude for her help with makeup, hair, and backstage wardrobe malfunctions
“You really love tea, don’t you?” Eric broke into her train of thought.
She poured the boiling water over the tea leaves before shooting a glance at him. “Well, yes. What of it? You love tea too.”
He shifted on the stool, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “I love tea but not like you. You LOVE tea. Look at your cabinet. You have a monthly tea budget. And your own tea blends? Which are fantastic. You’re a tea fanatic, Ginny my love.”
She pursed her lips, watching the tea timer. “So I’m really into tea. What’s your point?”
He was silent and Ginny glanced over at him. She knew him well enough to know that look. “You’re scheming.”
Eric’s mouth dropped open for a moment then shut with a clap. “I wouldn’t say scheming exactly. It’s just that I had an idea.”
Ginny poured the tea into mismatched porcelain mugs and inhaled the aromatic steam with closed eyes. “Ideas at 6 am before tea? Not good. Here, drink this.” She shoved a mug across the counter to him.
He blew across the liquid and took a sip. “Mmm, nice, what is this?”
She grinned. “I blended some pu’er and Assam with a little Pekoe. It’s great with milk.”
He shuddered. “Milk in tea? Heathen.”
“Just because Chinese people don’t like milk in their black tea doesn’t mean I can’t like it.”
Eric put down his mug and fixed her with a stare. “My mother would kill me if I put milk in my tea. But anyway. I have an idea. About your career.”
Ginny snorted and raised her eyebrow. “Career? I don’t have a career, sweetie. I have a series of low-paying gigs and soul-killing retail jobs.”
His smile called to mind the cat who’d stolen the salmon off the counter. “Exactly. What you need is direction. Passion. Motivation.”
She gulped down her tea then wrinkled her nose at him. “You sound like a career counselor or something. What are you getting at?”
“You love tea, no you’re obsessed with tea. So make something of it. Open a business. A tea store, a booth at craft fairs, I don’t know, what about a tea room?”
The sound she made could’ve been mistaken for a cat with a particularly nasty hairball. “Tea room? Like one of those lace doily and matching china tourist traps downtown? Me? Are you kidding?”
Eric sipped his tea, waiting for her to calm down. She sputtered and huffed for a while. After Ginny’s snorts and expletives had quieted, he tried again.
“I meant something more you. Unique tea blends. Tea that people who know tea would want to drink. But nothing really high end. We already have that in Victoria.”
Ginny frowned in concentration. She did love playing with teas but she wasn’t convinced that it could actually be something she made money doing.
How lovely it is to get a deep, thoughtful review. I am so appreciative of W.A. Stanley for this delightful writeup of The Cultist’s Wife. He really enjoyed my Roboticist of Versailles books and I was a little nervous about the reception of this one since it’s so different. Happily, he had only positive things to say!
This book o’ mine had a long, strange, and winding journey to publication but it’s HERE.
Long time readers of this blog first encountered it as a story about a little girl going to the Bahamas called Sand and Bones. Then I re-wrote it to be Clara’s story, and it became Escaping Andronicus. And then I let my Beta readers (thank you Dover and Thena!) at it (again) and it was finally titled The Cultist’s Wife.
Then it sat in my To Be Edited folder while I worked on The Vitruvian Mask because I had people asking me for a sequel to The Archimedean Heart and I am nothing if not responsive to my readers. <grin>
But finally, I returned to this book and polished it up to a shine. I had my developmental editor give it another pass. A sensitivity reader took a look at it from a Black Bahamian perspective. I hired a proofreader (thanks, Alison!) and got a great cover designer (Kelley York at Sleepy Fox Studios). I think it’s the story I wanted to tell now.
I have had some lovely people look at the ARCs and wanted to share snippets of their reviews:
The book took my breath away…
It had everything that I was looking for…
I was so enthralled in this story I couldn’t stop thinking about it when I couldn’t be reading it.
This was a quick read and it sucked me in right away!
Read this in 2 days. Very readable!
Awww, you folks are so sweet! <BLUSH> I was so pleased to read these reviews!
If you want your own copy, The Cultist’s Wife is on sale through the month of May.
It’s part of a promo package with a ton of other horror, mystery, and suspense books here or by itself here.
Here it is, the cover for my next book, The Cultist’s Wife! It was designed by the very talented Kelley York at Sleepy Fox Studios. I am thrilled! It really captures the essence of the book, a historical gothic horror set in 1908 Bahamas.
I am doing a pre-release sale right now through the release day (1 May 2024).
1908, the height of the British Empire. Clara’s autonomy is shattered when her long-absent husband summons her to join him at his eerie sect’s headquarters, insulated on a sparsely inhabited island in the Bahamas.
After a harrowing sea voyage, Clara and her children disembark into an unfamiliar landscape and climate. The children explore the marvels and mysteries of Andros Island and develop friendships with a Bahamian family, while Clara struggles to find her place as a woman within the cult.
But what seems at first to be a spiritual haven for Clara reveals itself to be a monster-worshiping cult intent on draining her family of more than their fortune.
Clara realizes that her quest for independence must mesh with her need to protect her children from the cult’s depraved attempts to consume their life essence.
Thanks for your interest. The ARC signups are now closed. To be part of the next ARC campaign, sign up for my email newsletter.
I published The Cultist’s Wife on the 1st May 2024 (YES, FINALLY) so for my dearest subscribers, I am giving you a sneak peak. This is the first scene of the book. Enjoy!
Near Bath, England, 1908
Fragrant smoke swirled around Clara, its spicy, musky scent relaxing her. She breathed deeply, released from her corset’s constraints. She was free for at least an hour or two this morning before her obligations descended again. Clara’s heavy silk robe caressed her body and she shivered with pleasure. She settled more comfortably onto the large cushion on the floor of her darkened sitting room and focused on the single candle flame in front of her.
A childish voice shrieked outside her sitting room. Clara sighed and glanced at the door.
Can’t Nanny manage the children for an hour? I just need some time to myself.
The noise faded and her sitting room grew quiet. She took a long steadying breath, trying to regain her inner peace. Her reading into Esoterica and Spiritualism had hinted at possibilities of life beyond the constraints and expectations of society. Her marriage, her home, even having children had all been others’ choices. She needed guidance on how to become her own person, to find her own happiness. Her knees ached as she knelt on the cushion, and she shifted. Her feet were numb and tingling. She wiggled her toes and exhaled.
How do the gurus sit like this for hours?
Gathering her focus again, she determined to sit still until her spirit guide manifested and gave her the advice she sought. She had never actually seen her spirit guide or spoken to him, but her references assured her of his presence. She just needed to focus long enough. It had been so much easier to see the spirit world when she was a child. Clara leaned forward and sprinkled more incense on the brazier. A cloud billowed up and she watched as patterns formed in the musky, intoxicating smoke. Coughing a little, Clara squinted in the darkness.
Was that a face in the smoke? Could he be manifesting to her finally?
Clara struggled to sit still. Her body tensed with excitement and her breathing came fast and shallow. The image coalesced further, and the face began to look familiar. She squinted in the gloom.
That face…it’s so familiar. Who is it? Oh no…it can’t be…
Disappointment fell heavy upon her. The face in the smoke resembled her long-absent husband Theophilus. But why would her spirit guide look like him? Clara scowled at the likeness of her husband’s face. This apparition couldn’t be her spirit guide. She had somehow conjured up a vision of Theophilus. Her heart thumped hard. Why should he appear to her now when he had been in the Bahamas for five years? Was he dead and his ghost was haunting her? As if in answer to her questioning, the mouth opened in a silent scream and the eyes grew wide in terror. Clara gasped and cringed back from the brazier. Cold crept across her skin. She shivered and reached for her shawl, draping it around her shoulders without shifting her stare from the phantasm. It continued to scream without making a sound, its gaping mouth opening and closing. She pulled the shawl closer, her hands clenching the fabric.
The ghosts I saw as a child never looked like that. I don’t think he’s dead. Perhaps he’s in danger.
The smoke drifted higher, and the phantasm dissipated. Tears filled her eyes. Clara rose off her pillow, wincing at the tingling in her feet. Theophilus’s portrait above the mantel, illuminated by the single candle, glared down at her. Life with that cold, brutal man had been joyless. She glowered back at the image, wishing she had the courage to take the painting down.
I wanted insight into becoming happy. Does the road to my happiness lie with helping Theophilus?
She shook her head, remembering all the times when he had laughed at her spiritual explorations. He would find it ludicrous if she told him about having a vision of him being in trouble. But she had been seeking guidance from her spirit guide. Would she have to go to the Bahamas to help Theophilus? She paced across the little sitting room to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes. The misty green countryside stretched away into the distance.
I don’t want to leave England to be with Theophilus. He’ll take over my life like he did when he was here.
Tears welled up in her eyes and she gulped, trying to suppress them. They poured hot down her cheeks. Clara pressed her trembling hands against her face, but the tears kept coming. Her sobs shook her body and she moaned, trying to catch her breath.
Stop it, stop it. Control yourself, Clara.
She shoved a fist into her mouth to stifle the undignified sounds and sank to her knees, head resting on the windowsill. She fought the urge to shriek her fury.
I can’t go. I hate him. I hate him.
Clara sucked in a harsh breath, shuddering. The anger dissipated as quickly as it had overtaken her, leaving Clara weak and empty, her face wet. She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her tears away. She’d need to repair her ravaged face before tea. She looked back at the brazier. The manifestation had been so vivid. Was it a true seeing or guilt over her hatred of her husband? She couldn’t give up her quest for happiness to go to Theophilus because of this vision. Could she?
On a remote island in the Bahamas, Clara is drawn into her husband’s cloistered cult. As her children explore, they reveal the cult’s corruption but no one will listen. Will Clara realize the danger they’re all in?
Tony over at Liminal Press reviewed The Vitruvian Mask and something about it made me laugh and say, YEAH…the line in particular that tickled me was “Let’s be honest, The Vitruvian Mask is a bit of a misery fest while also being quite a great read.”
A misery fest? I hadn’t conceived of it that way, but it is a bit grim…I guess I LIKE grim!
BJ Sikes, author 