On A Wicked Dawn (2 page)

Claire E. White:
Have your research skills learned as a scientist translated to skills that help you when doing historical research?

Stephanie Laurens:
Oh, yes! Having used all sorts of resources for scientific information for years, hunting up historical information is really no different. But that isn't the major overlap between scientific research and writing. The most useful scientific skill apropos of writing is analysis. Scientists analyze everything, it's an automatic instinct.

My husband once came into the study when I was working on a manuscript, and laughed, saying: “Anyone could tell instantly that you were a scientist!” This was because I had a huge sheet of graph paper spread out, and was graphing the whole book, page by page, as to action, dialogue, monologue, narrative description, point of view, emotional intensity, etc, etc. I did that for quite a few books and have now trained myself to be mentally “alert” if I exceed certain parameters — the ones I know will keep the pace up and the reader absorbed.

And then, once I'd achieved repeated success, I had to discover how I'd done it, so I could keep doing it. That took another round of different types of analysis, both of my works and those of other successful authors. I now know what sort of structure I instinctively use, and how and why it works for me, so I can assure myself as I'm writing the first draft, which I sort of “write as it comes,” that I'm working within this basic structure, so all will be all right in the end. That structure, and the parameters I worked out first, have proved excellent guides in helping me convert first drafts into final polished submissions. So being a scientist has helped enormously, in more ways than one.

Claire E. White:
Do you use the internet for research?

Stephanie Laurens:
Not extensively. I'm still a bookworm at heart, and I like browsing around libraries. You never know what you might find, and I need to keep feeding my mind.

Claire E. White:
Your publisher, Avon Books, is based in New York. Is it difficult coordinating with a publisher who is in another country?

Stephanie Laurens:
Actually, I'm not sure it's not easier being in another country. That way, everything is in writing, of one sort or another. New York and Melbourne are fourteen to sixteen hours apart, which makes intelligent phone conversations exceedingly difficult. You quickly learn the details of courier deliveries. I've only ever worked as an author with London and New York, and have found them equally easy. But I think the most useful aspect of writing in Melbourne is the isolation — I can manage the information influx better, as there's very little, if any, relevant local activities or magazines to tempt me.

Claire E. White:
What is the market like for authors of romantic fiction in Australia?

Stephanie Laurens:
First, there are no publishers of romance, per se, in Australia — all romance novels come from either the UK or North America. So for an author who wants to write romance, it's either London, New York, or Toronto. As for the romance market here, it's more than a decade behind the US, which means the big explosion is yet to come.

Claire E. White:
What do you hope your readers take away from your books?

Stephanie Laurens:
I have this aim: To leave my readers with one of those big, silly smiles on their faces.

Claire E. White:
What do you enjoy most about being a writer?

Stephanie Laurens:
Learning that I succeeded in my aim. I get a lot of satisfaction from hearing that I gave some other woman a few hours of fantasy, a brief period of escape, and left her feeling good.

Claire E. White:
What do your former colleagues think about your career change?

Stephanie Laurens:
Most are fascinated — some are actually proud. Even the males, and, of course, it's largely a male preserve, are truly interested in an intrigued sort of way. I think they'd like to suspect that I was mad, but they knew me for too long to doubt my sanity.

Claire E. White:
Does your husband read your books? What does he think about the sex scenes?

Stephanie Laurens:
My husband has never read any of my books — nor has any other male that I know. I don't actually expect them to — I specifically write for women, in ways that women understand. I don't write for men. When they have tried to read me, they usually can't get past the first few pages, and when you discuss it, you find they're missing all the “tag lines,” the emotional interplay and the body language, etc. They literally can't figure out what the book is about, because they don't see an emotional plot as relevant or sufficiently important to write a book about. So my husband hasn't read any of my sex scenes, although he knows they are there. I don't know that he has any “thoughts” about them at all.

Claire E. White:
When you're not reading romances, what else do you like to read?

Stephanie Laurens:
I read a lot of genre fiction, and always have. I read mostly crime and fantasy fiction. I love finding good authors, ones whose works work for me, and hunting down their books. Occasionally, I'll read a nonfiction work, but that's rare — usually only if it's about something intriguing and/or romantic. As I said above, feeding the mind.

Claire E. White:
What advice would you give to aspiring romance authors trying to crack the historical romance market?

Stephanie Laurens:
Find your voice — not anyone else's, but yours. Then tell your story, the one you've been given to tell. That's the story you love, the story that moves you. Take the creating one step at a time, but remember: you can only find your voice by writing the book. So write the book — and then rewrite and rewrite, by yourself, until your voice rings clearly. Until your book sings. Then it'll sell.

Claire E. White:
What is the most valuable lesson you learned since you became a novelist?

Stephanie Laurens:
It's encapsulated in the above, and is basically my writing motto, not blazoned on my wall but blazoned across my inner eye. Write the book. Nothing else matters — just write the book. And make every book you write your best ever.

~

Excerpts from an interview with Stephanie Laurens by Claire E. White, editor-in-chief,
The Internet Writing Journal
®, http://www.writerswrite.com. Edited for this HarperCollins e-book edition.

Mount Street, London
3
A.M.
, May 25, 1825

He was drunk.
Gloriously
drunk. More drunk—drunker—than he'd ever been. Not that he made a habit of inebriation, but last night, or more specifically and especially this morning, was a once-in-a-lifetime occasion. After eight long years, he was free.

Lucien Michael Ashford, sixth Viscount Calverton, sauntered along Mount Street, nonchalantly twirling his ebony cane, a smile of unfettered joy curving his lips.

He was twenty-nine, yet today qualified as the first of his adult life, the first day he could call said life his own. Even better, as of yesterday, he was rich. Fabulously, fantastically—legally—wealthy. There was not a great deal more he could think of to wish for. If he hadn't been afraid of falling on his face, he would have danced down the deserted street.

The moon was out, lighting the pavements, casting deep shadows. About him, London lay sleeping, but the capital, even at this hour, was never truly silent; from a distance, distorted by the stone facades all around, came the jingle of harness, the hollow clop of hooves, a disembodied call. Although
even here, in the most fashionable quarter, danger sometimes lurked in the shadows, he felt no threat. His senses were still operational, and despite his state he'd taken care to walk evenly; any watching him with felonious intent would see a tall, sufficiently well built, gracefully athletic gentleman swinging a cane that might, and indeed did, conceal a swordstick, and move on to more likely prey.

He'd left his club in St. James and the company of a group of friends half an hour ago, electing to walk home the better to clear his head of the effects elicited by a quantity of the very best French brandy. His celebrations had been restrained owing to the simple fact that none of said friends—indeed no one other than his mother and his wily old banker, Robert Child—knew anything of his previous state, the dire straits to which he and his family had been brought by his sire prior to his death eight years before, the perilous situation from which he'd spent the last eight years clawing his way back, and from which yesterday he'd finally won free.

The fact they'd had no idea what he was celebrating had not prevented his friends from joining him. A long night filled with wine, song, and the simple pleasures of male companionship had ensued.

A pity his oldest friend, his cousin Martin Fulbridge, now Dexter, earl of, wasn't presently in London. Then again, Martin was doubtless enjoying himself at his home in the north, wallowing in the benefits accruing to a recently married man; he had married Amanda Cynster a week ago.

Grinning to himself, Luc mentally—superiorly—shook his head over his cousin's weakness, his surrender to love. Reaching his house, he turned to the shallow steps leading to the front door—his head spun for an instant, then righted. Carefully, he walked up the steps, halted before the door, then hunted in his pocket for his keys.

They slipped through his fingers twice before he grasped them and hauled them forth. The ring in his palm, he shuffled the keys, frowning as he tried to identify the one for the front door. Then he found it. Grasping it, he squinted, guiding
it to keyhole . . . after the third try, it slid home; he turned and heard the tumblers fall.

Returning the keys to his pocket, he grasped the knob and sent the door swinging wide. He stepped over the threshold—

A dervish erupted from the black hole of the area steps—he caught only a fleeting glimpse, had only an instant's warning before the figure barreled past him, one elbow knocking him off-balance. He staggered and fetched up against the hall wall.

That brief human contact, deadened by layers of fabric though it was, sent sensation rushing through him, and told him unequivocally who the dervish was. Amelia Cynster. Twin to his cousin's new wife, longtime friend of his family's whom he'd known since she was in nappies. An as-yet-unmarried female with a backbone of steel. Cloaked and hooded, she plunged into the dim hall, came to an abrupt halt, then whirled and faced him.

The wall behind his shoulders was the only thing keeping him upright. He stared, astounded, utterly bemused . . . waited for the effect of her touch to subside . . .

She made an angry, frustrated sound, dashed back to the door, grabbed it, and propelled it shut. The loss of the moonlight left him blinking, eyes adjusting to the dark. The door closed, she swung around; her back to the panel, she glared—he felt it.

“What the devil's the matter with you?” she hissed.

“Me?”
Easing his shoulders from the wall, he managed to find his balance. “What the damn hell are
you
doing here?”

He couldn't even begin to imagine. Moonlight streamed in through the fanlight, passing over their heads to strike the pale tiles of the hall. In the diffused light, he could just make out her features, fine and delicate in an oval face, framed by golden curls tumbling under her hood.

She straightened; chin rising, she set the hood back. “I wanted to speak with you privately.”

“It's three o'clock in the morning.”

“I know! I've been waiting since one. But I wanted to
speak with you without anyone else knowing—I can hardly come here during the day and demand to speak privately with you, can I?”

“No—for a very good reason.” She was unmarried, and so was he. If she wasn't standing before the door he'd be tempted to open it and . . . he frowned. “You didn't come alone?”

“Of course not. I've a footman outside.”

He put a hand to his brow. “Oh. Good.” This was getting complicated.

“For goodness sake! Just
listen.
I know all about your family's financial state.”

That captured his immediate and complete attention. Noting it, she nodded. “Exactly. But you needn't worry I'll tell anyone—indeed, quite the opposite. That's why I needed to speak with you alone. I've a proposition to put to you.”

His wits were reeling—he couldn't think what to say. Couldn't imagine what
she
was going to say.

She didn't wait, but drew breath and launched in. “It must be plain, even to you, that I've been looking about for a husband, yet the truth is there's not a single eligible gentleman I feel the least bit inclined to marry. But now Amanda's gone, I find it boring in the extreme continuing as an unmarried young lady.” She paused, then went on, “That's point one.

“Point two is that you and your family are in straitened circumstances.” She held up a staying hand. “You needn't try to tell me otherwise—over the past weeks I've spent a lot of time here, and generally about with your sisters. Emily and Anne don't know, do they? You needn't fear I've told them—I haven't. But when one is that close, little things do show. I realized a few weeks ago and much I've noticed since has confirmed my deduction. You're in dun territory—
no!
Don't say a word. Just hear me out.”