Category Archives: Book Recipes

Book Recipes: How to Write a Noir Detective Thriller

Time for another book recipe! This time I’ll be looking at Noir fiction. Put on your trench coats and fedoras and let’s get started!

 

Ingredients:

  • One hard-boiled, alcoholic private eye
  • One dame who done him wrong
  • A spectacularly grimy city, with skyscrapers
  • Entire vats of cynicism
  • An informant named either ‘Jimmy’ or ‘Benny’
  • Guns named after women
  • A sinister crime boss
  • Absolutely no happy endings
  • Trenchcoats

 

Method:

  1. Put your PI in a grimy office and have him monologue about things. It can’t be about anything happy or banal, and must be filled with questionable metaphors.
  2. In walks our femme fatale for the evening! They flirt.
  3. She wants him to investigate a murder, for reasons that are slightly dodgy.
  4. Our PI investigates the scene of the crime. There are Clues. All the important ones have been missed by the police, who are incompetent, corrupt, or both.
  5. Time to visit the informant and find out what he knows. He’ll tell you, because he’s a coward.
  6. Oh no! A Clue has led you to a place where criminals hang out! Time to treat your life with utter disdain and sneak in in the most brazen way possible. Hi-jinks ensue.

  1. The boss wants to see you. This is never good. You should monologue some more so the reader gets it.
  2. The sinister crime boss warns the PI to drop the case, stay away from the femme fatale, or similar. It’s a very tense conversation, and always done in front of hired goons.
  3. Ignore him! There’s still eleven steps to go.
  4. Meet up with the femme fatale again and flirt some more. Something she says doesn’t quite add up, but she’s hot, so it doesn’t matter.
  5. A gunfight! Join in.
  6. You have a Clue that contradicts the evidence of the first Clue, in a way that is too intricate and complex to articulate in a sarcastic twenty-step overview! WHAT CAN IT MEEEEAN?
  7. Something bad happens to slow down the investigation! It could be a break-in, a beat-up informant, or maybe even another murder. Monologue about it.
  8. The femme fatale and the PI have a tender/romantic/sexy moment together. Allow a brief sliver of hope, but get ready to crush it later.
  9. So close to finding out the truth! The PI just needs one more edge piece and the puzzle will be solved…
  10. …but oh no, he’s arrested! It’s highly suspicious.
suspicious-gif-18
Hmmm… (image: gifimage.net)
  1. The crime boss appears again, and offers the PI one last chance. Ignore him, he’s not the protagonist.
  2. Break out of jail! Have a chase scene! Punch a guy! Cram the last few pages with action.
  3. Turns out the femme fatale was behind it all along! What an absolute shocker.
  4. Finish off with a big gunfight. The PI survives, but the femme fatale, the crime boss, and that last sliver of hope definitely don’t. Walk off into the rain, bitterly.

THE END. Serve with plenty of liquor.

 

Tips:

  • Always write in first person. If it doesn’t sound like a bitter drunk is telling you the story while slumped over a barstool, start again.
  • Not sure where to set it? It doesn’t really matter. Near future dystopia, Roaring Twenties, nursery rhymes – anywhere can be a noir setting if you put a depressing enough spin on it!
  • Never ever call women ‘women’. Only ever refer to them as dames, broads, doll, toots, or tomatoes. (That last one is not made up.)
AO_Girl_Tomato
What hath science wrought?? (image: annoyingorangefanon.wikia.com)
  • All your gangsters need to have nicknames. They don’t have to make sense, though.
  • Always make sure your main character has a cool name. He’s got to beat up bad guys and solve murders, and he can’t really do that if he’s got a name like Gerald.
  • Cram it full of questionable metaphors. If you get stuck, elaborate, and then put ‘if ya know what I mean’ on the end of the sentence. Readers will assume you are wise-cracking and witty, instead of thinking that you fell down the rabbit hole with a thesaurus in your hand. If ya know what I mean.
giphy community
YEAH YOU DO. (image: giphy.com)
  • Contractions and slang make your main character sound tough. ‘You’ is always ‘ya’, don’t hesitate to use no double negative, and always go for ‘gotta’ over ‘got to’. Proper grammar is for wusses.

 

And here’s one I prepared earlier…

 

They say this city used to be the kinda town where everyone knew each other. A guy couldn’t go a block without seein’ someone he knew. A little old lady with an apple pie. Maybe some kids, playin’ on the sidewalk. Musta been nice.

These days, it ain’t so pretty. Sure, there’s a few familiar faces. But they ain’t exactly friendly. Ya see ’em steppin’ out of alleys with a gat pointed at your belly and ya think ‘Gee, didn’t ya rob me last week?’

Not me, though. Nobody robs Mac Hunter. Even in this city, where sleepin’ in the gutter is a step up, nobody’s dumb enough to rob the best PI in town. Besides, they all know I’m broke.

Feet on the desk, I pour myself another glass of hooch. Business is slow, slower than a snail with a gammy leg. I oughtta be drummin’ up a case, but to hell with that. It’s rainin’. Always rains in this godforsaken city.

I light up a Camel. Yellow light stripes through the Venetian blinds, like a zebra, only one with really straight stripes that’s been turned ass over teakettle. Electricity broke two weeks ago and the landlord won’t do a damn thing about it. Says I oughtta be grateful for a place of my own. Hell. He oughtta be grateful he answers to Jimmy “Spoonface” Giuliani. If ol’ Spoonface wasn’t in the picture, he wouldn’t be so quick to run his mouth off.

There’s a knock at the door. Hell. Landlord, again.

“Velma! Get the door!” I yell, before I remember that Velma walked out last week. Said a secretary wanted payin’ in more’n just stale whiskey. She’ll be back. She sticks to me like gum that’s been covered in glue, and then dunked in molasses, and then glue, again. Never could say no to a man with a pack a day habit and a gun in his pocket.

But then the door opens, and trouble walks in. Turns out, trouble is a redhead.

Legs for days and all the way up to her waist, if ya know what I mean. Poured into a dress as black as a black cat in a coal cellar at midnight and with all the lights off. Curls like spiral staircases twirling up to the top of her head, and I couldn’t think of a man who wouldn’t slug a guy to climb ’em. Fur coat. Shiny gloves. A ring that coulda bought half the city, but that ain’t sayin’ much.

“Well?” she says, in a voice like November, “aren’t you going to give me a seat, Mr Hunter?”

Aw, hell. I tip an ashtray and a few empty bottles of hooch off of a chair. She shakes her head, mutters ‘November?’ and sits herself down. It’s like watching a bottle of oak-cask whiskey uncork itself and wriggle towards your hand.

She frowns. “Oak-cask whiskey?”

“Never mind. What can I do you for, Miss…”

“Valentine.”

“I betcha are.”

Mrs Lola Valentine.”

“He’s a lucky fella.”

She fits a cigarette into a long holder. Before I know it I’m lightin’ it for her, like some chubby little drone buzzin’ after the queen bee. Only, with cigarettes and a lighter in my fuzzy bee paws. Note to self: do bees have paws? Probably oughtta look that one up.

She gives me a strange look and takes a drag. “He’s a dead fella, Mr Hunter.”

Damn. Now I remember. Her dear departed husband musta been Frank “Steps” Valentine. Rich. Old. In the Mayor’s pocket and not the one at the back, if ya know what I mean. Shot in the back of the head not two weeks gone. Coroner ruled it a suicide. They always do.

“I know my husband’s death wasn’t a suicide,” she says, fixin’ me with a look that pinned me like a butterfly on a collector’s board. Only, a manly butterfly, with trenchcoat wings, a fedora, and a gat named Ginger in his hand. Antenna.

“Now, Mrs Valentine…”

“You know it too. I heard the tone of your monologue. I want you to find out who killed him. I’ll pay you well, of course.”

She knew I could do with the money. But “Steps” Valentine played a dangerous game, and I don’t mean no game that could be played with the lovely Lola. All kindsa scum had muscled in on Valentine’s racket and his body was barely cold. Eddie “Llama” McMurphy had his slice of the rum-runners. Vincenzo “Beaker” Gorlami was movin’ in on the girlie shows. And worst of all, Boris “the Holly Bush” Krazinsky was havin’ dinner with the Mayor every night, and you betcha he was gettin’ two scoops of ice cream with desert, if ya know what I mean.

But ‘danger’ is my middle name. No, really. It says ‘Mac Danger Hunter’ on my birth certificate.

“And if I don’t take the case?”

“Then, Mr Hunter,” she says, givin’ me a smile that drains all the metaphors right outta me, “I’ll take it to a gumshoe that doesn’t monologue out loud.”

 

Let me know what you’d like me to look at next – and as always, take this recipe with a pinch of salt.

Alice-In-Wonderland-I-See-What-You-Did-There
Heh heh heh. (image: replycandy.com)
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Book Recipes: How to Write an Epic Fantasy

Time for another book recipe! This time I’ll be looking at epic fantasy. Put on your questing helmet and let’s get started!

 

Ingredients:

  • An assorted mix of noble adventurers. Choose your own flavours from any of the following:
    • The long-lost heir to the throne
    • The wise elf-mage
    • A drunk, angry guide
    • A spunky warrior-princess
    • A charming but slightly morally dodgy rogue
    • Dwarves
  • The Sacred MacGuffin
  • One Evil Overlord
  • One slightly less evil overlord, for target practice
  • Expendable armies
  • A magic sword
giphy lightsaber
OK, you know that’s not what I meant. (image: giphy.com)
  • A series of oddly-named kingdoms
  • A handful of magical creatures, for set dressing

 

Method:

  1. An Evil Overlord has risen and the kingdom is in peril! Only one thing can stop him: the Sacred MacGuffin.
  2. Assemble your heroes! It’s questing time. Pack your magic sword and we’re off!
  3. Have your heroes amble along towards the MacGuffin. It’s a race against time, but no-one’s really going to care about that until after the halfway point.
  4. Time for group banter. If the warrior-princess is in your band of heroes, it’s also time to start setting up the romance. It doesn’t matter if there’s no chemistry at all. Of course she can’t be single!
  5. Have an amusing tavern scene to pass the time. Make sure to include a bumbling, fat innkeeper.
  6. First encounter with the hordes of the Evil Overlord! The heroes win, and it’s all very exciting.
  7. Keep on questing. Remember that the questing decisions don’t have to make logical sense. They just have to lead your heroes into exciting and difficult situations. Logic is for losers.
  8. A thing has happened which makes questing so much harder! Maybe someone forgot to take their horse in for a service or something. It doesn’t matter as long as the reader knows that now Things Are Serious.
giphy serious face
Put on your serious face, it’s about to go down. (image: giphy.com)
  1. The slightly less evil overlord pursues the heroes. Kill one of them off if you want to show how serious things are now.
  2. The heroes are having doubts. Now is an excellent point to mope about the lovers/families/favourite pizza joints they left behind.
  3. A trap!
  4. The heroes are saved with the help of some magic stuff. Elves, swords, unicorns, take your pick.
  5. The group is fractured! The noblest and most attractive ones decide to continue the quest, while the others go and do something else.
  6. Have a deep and meaningful conversation about duty, honour, sacrifice, and other things that must be discussed with a very straight face.
  7. Our heroes have found a magic sword, or a secret prophecy, or a helpful dragon – the point is, they’ve levelled up for some reason! Hooray!
y
I mean, I guess you’re on the right track. (image: picquery.com)
  1. The slightly less evil overlord is defeated! Make sure to take notes, as that was only the warm-up.
  2. The MacGuffin is recovered! Time to limber up for the final battle – and for the group to be re-united, because they clearly overheard the conversation in step 14.
  3. EPIC BATTLE. SWORDS. MAGIC. DRAGONS, PROBABLY. THE ULTIMATE SHOWDOWN.
  4. The MacGuffin does its thing and the Evil Overlord is defeated! Give your armies the day off.
  5. Peace is restored to the kingdom! The rightful heir is back on the throne, the warrior-princess has got married, and the dwarves are drinking themselves into a stupor.

THE END. Serve dusted in a fine layer of magical background creatures.

 

Tips:

  • Language is super important – it’s got to sound epic as well as look epic. People don’t ‘look for’ stuff, they ‘seek’ it. Never, ever use contractions. It’s not ‘because’, it’s ‘for’. Basically, if it doesn’t sound like it’s written on parchment, go back and start again.
  • Make sure you give your characters the right names. Barbarians need names with lots of consonants in. Elves need names with lots of soft sounds in. Evil Overlords should have names made up of all the difficult bits of the alphabet. If in doubt, spell a normal name badly and stick ‘Brightblade’ at the end of it.
  • Stuck on what magical creatures to use? Anything that could be airbrushed onto the side of a van is fine.
218d480b5ac02fe2f9aeb0f4a7a4dc08--s-nostalgia-rainbow-unicorn
That wasn’t quite what I had in mind… (image: pinterest.com)
  • Horses are basically happy, furry cars with four legs. Don’t worry about making sure they’ve got enough food, water, rest etc. – that would just get in the way of the plot!
  • Kingdoms are good. Simple country villages are good. Councils are almost always bad or inefficient, and Republics should be treated with suspicion. Empires are stone-cold evil.
  • Never trust a Grand Vizier.
  • Fantasy races are a must, but you really only need two or three. Elves are wise but kind of girly. Dwarves are silly. Orcs are bad, stupid and ugly. Goblins are the worst. For anything else use this rule of thumb: if they’re attractive, you can trust them.

 

And here’s one I prepared earlier…

 

Alyss Brightblade tugged her hooded cloak a little closer and hammered on the tavern door. Behind her, her companions shivered in the rain. Apart from Wolf. The barbarian, who had come from the wastes of the frozen north, had stripped down to his fur-lined underpants again.

A wooden panel slid open. Alyss caught a glimpse of a jowly face. “What d’you want?”

“We seek shelter from the storm and a hot meal for our bellies, innkeep.”

The innkeeper opened the door. He was a fat man with sideburns and a large white apron. “Come in, then. And tell your barbarian to put a shirt on.”

Alyss glanced back at Wolf. The rain glistened on his chest. She wouldn’t tell him to put a shirt on just yet.

They filed into the inn and huddled around the fire. Durdon, the dwarfish axe-master, made straight for the bar, tucking his beard into his belt and rolling up his sleeves as he went. The rest of them found a table in the corner.

Lorrolarriel looked around the inn with barely-concealed distate, his elfish nose wrinkling. “Must we really seek shelter in such rude accommodations?”

Wolf grunted. Alyss blushed. He was so strong and silent. And stoic. And tall. And –

Lorrolarriel leaned forward. Behind him, Durdon tossed aside an empty horn of mead and called for another. “It pains me to allow you to travel in such squalor, Princess.”

Alyss shushed him. “I thank you for your courtesy, wise elf-mage, but it is necessary. If I am ever to reclaim my father’s throne, I must seek the Grail of Antioch in secret. Lord Kraegorn can never know of my plans.”

“You are wise beyond your years, my lady. But still, this place is so…sweaty.”

The innkeeper came over with a tray of bread and cheese and three flagons of ale. He slapped them down on the table and bumbled back to the bar, tripping over a table as he went. At the bar, Durdon finished his second horn of mead and laughed.

Alyss picked at her bread and cheese. “I would walk into a thousand sweaty taverns if it meant restoring my birthright, Lorrolarriel.”

Wolf grunted. Alyss smiled a secret smile. She knew he’d understand.

Durdon slumped onto the bench, a drink in each hand. One of them had a twirly straw. Alyss beckoned her companions closer and spread her map across the table.

“We are here, at the tavern of –” she checked the menu “– the Monkey’s Wineskin. Lord Kraegorn and his forces hold the Pass of Antigorr, here.” She pointed. “That way is barred to us. To the west is the Bog of Kra’ka’harrgh – impassable at this time of year. To the east are the Mountains of Prigwyth, but I fear we will be too late. Winter is coming, and the snows will make crossing the mountains impossible.”

Durdon hiccupped and moved onto his second drink. Wolf nodded at the map and grunted.

Lorrolarriel gave a disdainful sniff. “We do not all have the constitution of Northmen, barbarian.”

Wolf growled and reached for his warhammer. Durdon slurped his drink through a straw. Alyss raised a hand.

“Good sirs, please. We have foes enough without fighting amongst ourselves. Now, as I see it we have but two choices. We can travel to the Republic of Syssyss and request an audience with Grand Vizier Qrix. He could grant us safe passage through the Pass of Antigorr. Disguised as Syssyssian emissaries, Lord Kraegorn would not attack us.”

Lorrolarriel frowned. “Can he be trusted?”

Wolf snorted. Alyss flushed. She’d made herself look so foolish in front of him. He must think she was nothing more than a child. He’d probably put his shirt back on now, just to spite her.

“I fear not,” she said. “But our other choice is far more dangerous. If we hired a guide, we might be able to skirt around the edges of the Bog of Kra’ka’harrgh and pass through the Very Dangerous Desert.”

Durdon wandered off to the bar to get some shots. Lorrolarriel leaned forward and peered at the map. “But my lady, that is marked with a skull and crossbones. And if you look here, in the margins, the cartographer has added a little note. It says ‘don’t go here, ever’.”

Alyss rolled up the map. “I fear we have no choice.”

“Yes, well,” Lorrolarriel muttered, “I cannot help but muse on our quest ahead, my lady. Might we not be better placed to seek the help of the Griffins of the Tiny Forest? With their aid, we could fly straight to the Holy Citadel of Ka’bathor, retrieve the Grail and avoid spending six months camping in the woods.”

Alyss blinked at him.

“Well of course we can’t do that, Lorrolarriel,” she explained, “it wouldn’t count.”

 

Let me know what you’d like me to look at next – and as always, take this recipe with a pinch of salt.

Alice-In-Wonderland-I-See-What-You-Did-There
Heh heh heh. (image: replycandy.com)

Book Recipes: How to Write a YA Dystopia

Time for another book recipe! This time I’ll be looking at YA dystopian fiction. Get ready to be Chosen and we’ll get started!

 

Ingredients:

  • One totally dark and edgy heroine
  • At least two tall and handsome love interests
  • One standard post-apocalyptic setting
  • One vague, shadowy organisation that runs everything
  • Token background characters to be killed off at will
  • The Prophecy
  • A social categorisation system that makes no sense
  • A bunch of futuristic-sounding names
  • Angst
giphy angst
No-one understands. (image: giphy.com)

 

Method:

  1. Use your post-apocalyptic setting and social categorisation system as a backdrop for our edgy heroine. Don’t explain too much, unless you’re describing what she looks like.
  2. She has been Chosen!
  3. Introduce your love interests. They must fit into one of the following categories:
    1. Overlooked childhood friend
    2. Dark and mysterious bad boy
    3. Plays guitar
  4. The Prophecy is revealed and it’s all about the heroine. It doesn’t have to make sense, it just needs lots of Impressive Capitals.
  5. Training montage!

  1. Our heroine finds out the shadowy organisation is plotting something! Better grab the love interests and investigate!
  2. FIGHTING!
  3. The heroine and one of the love interests are separated from the group! Better use the time wisely and make out.
  4. A Mysterious Secret is discovered. Don’t pay any attention to it until the final third of the book. We’ve still got chapters to fill.
  5. An authority figure tries to tell the heroine what to do, but they’re over twenty-five and can be safely ignored.
  6. Time for a deep and meaningful conversation with the other love interest!
  7. More training. This time there’s a love interest there, so it’s sexy training.
  8. The Prophecy is coming true, just like the Elders said!
  9. Angst. About everything. You wouldn’t understand.
  10. Time to go and destroy the evil organisation! Suit up. If there’s anyone you want to get rid of, make sure the heroine talks to them before she leaves. Then they’re a goner.
cop_sign2_2916
Just two days until retirement! (image: tvtropes.com)
  1. Sneak into the organisation’s lair. While you’re there, make sure the heroine agonises over who she’s going to make out with.
  2. BETRAYAL! Kill off a few background characters to make it stick.
  3. Time for the final showdown! The heroine bravely goes off to sacrifice herself, but not before making out with someone. I mean, she might die.
  4. Our heroine confronts the main villain, who sneers. There’s a big fight and a few tense conversations but it all works out well in the end.
  5. OR DOES IT??? Prepare for the inevitable trilogy.

THE END. Serve steeped in teenage angst.

 

Tips:

  • Stuck on coming up with futuristic names? Help is at hand. Just take a normal name and spell it badly.
  • Responsible parents should never, ever be a feature. Anything like bedtimes, eating vegetables, and insisting you don’t throw yourself into danger at every possible opportunity would just get in the way of your heroine’s adventures.
  • Never kill anyone off unless you’re absolutely sure you aren’t going to spin this out into a series.
  • Always, always, always use first person, present tense.
  • Don’t know how to organise your dystopian society? Take a random online quiz and base it off that. It doesn’t need to make sense – all it really needs to do is generate pointless tension.
giphy running
Quick! To Buzzfeed! (image: giphy.com)
  • Any opportunity to have a ~*Forbidden Romance*~ should be seized at all costs.
  • Don’t think too much about the whole apocalypse part. Hint at it in a mysterious sort of way, but don’t explain it. You don’t want your readers wondering how toothpaste survived a nuclear holocaust but electricity didn’t, you want them arguing over which cute boy the heroine should kiss!

 

And here’s one I prepared earlier…

 

For a second when I wake up I almost forget what Cycle it is. I’m back in The Dormitory with Khamm, Hollow, and Mareen, and any second now we’ll be shaken out of our bunks for Morning Nutrition.

But then I remember. I’m not in The Dormitory any more.

I get out of bed and pad over to the mirror. Elder Landseer’s house is so much nicer than The Dormitory. There are carpets, and a sink with brass taps – something that I haven’t seen before. Apparently there used to be all sorts of things like that, but they all got destroyed in The Cataclysm. Still, I don’t have time for such silly, girly things. I’d much rather be out hunting. I guess I’m not like other girls.

I examine my face in the mirror. Just an ordinary, everyday girl with aquamarine eyes, pure white hair and a scar shaped like a twisting vine on one cheekbone. Nothing special. I pull on my plain grey tunic and leggings and braid my hair. I wonder if they had braids before The Cataclysm.

There’s a knock at the door. Seconds later a guy comes in. I’d know those chartreuse eyes and obsidian hair anywhere. It’s Tretch Landseer, Elder Landseer’s only son. He raises his eyebrows at me, mockingly. “Come on, Freesia. Don’t keep us waiting.”

“It’s just Free, thanks,” I mutter. He wouldn’t understand.

He smirks and holds the door open for me. Stupidly, I trip over the carpet as I pass. I brace myself, ready for the fall, but before I hit the ground Tretch catches me around the waist.

“Careful,” he says, smirking.

I push him away, blushing. I don’t know why he’s being so nice all of a sudden. The Elders and their families hardly ever notice the Dormers. It’s only when we’ve been through The Ceremony that we actually become important.

My Ceremony was supposed to be yesterday, just like everyone else’s. It happens every year: when a Dormer turns sixteen, they are Chosen for their Echelon. There’s five, and once you’ve been Chosen you’re there for the rest of your life.

Khamm and I were both hoping for Venture. They at least get to have some fun – they’re the bravest out of everyone in The Colony, and they get to go beyond The Borderlands. But there’s also Bounty, who farm, Sinistra, who rule us, Meticule, who keep the records, and Pufflehuff, for the rest. Khamm was lucky – he got Venture after all. But when I went into the Room of Knowing, where the Ceremony takes place, nothing happened. I just stood there in the dark for ages, until Elder Landseer opened up the side door and told me I’d better follow him.

Tretch smirks at me again. He’s standing by a door with a twisting vine carved into it. Without thinking, my hand drifts up to my cheek. It looks just like my scar…

I go through the door. It’s pitch dark inside. I stand in the middle of the room and wait.

“Citizen Freesia Brightwater?” a voice asks.

“It’s Free, actually.”

“You are Citizen Freesia Brightwater?”

“Yes, but I go by –”

There’s a rush of whispering all around the room. I squint into the darkness.

“It’s true!” someone says, “she bears The Mark!”

“Her? She’s far too young.”

“She hasn’t even been Chosen! How can a Dormer stand against the Conclave?”

All at once the lights come on. The room is filled with people. I’m standing on a circular stage with rows and rows of seats rising up on every side. The Elders are sitting on a bench high above me, but it’s not them I look to. Khamm is in the front row, his chocolate-brown eyes wide with concern, his tawny hair rumpled, like always. For some reason I turn, and see Tretch looking at me too. There’s an expression on his face I’ve never seen before.

“Citizen Freesia Brightwater,” says Elder Landseer, getting to his feet, “you have been Chosen. Only you can save the world.”

 

Let me know what you’d like me to look at next – and as always, take this recipe with a pinch of salt.

Alice-In-Wonderland-I-See-What-You-Did-There
Heh heh heh. (image: replycandy.com)

Book Recipes: How to Write a Regency Romance

Time for another book recipe! This time I’ll be looking at Regency romances. Grab your parasol and let’s get started!

 

Ingredients:

  • One beautiful yet feisty heroine
  • One brooding, hot hero with pots of money
  • A token rival
  • Corsets
  • More dance parties than you could possibly imagine
  • A fine dusting of historical facts
  • A handful of supportive servants to fill time until the hero gets here
  • Unbelievably frilly names
  • Tea
my-cup-of-tea
Of course, you should always have tea handy anyway. (image: phrases.org.uk)

 

Method:

  1. Give your feisty heroine a ridiculously long name and an incredibly detailed physical description.
  2. She must wed, for plot reasons!
  3. Introduce your hero. If he can’t be described as ‘swoon-worthy’, start again.
  4. Time for a ball. Don’t forget to talk about the fancy dresses!
  5. The hero and heroine are immediately attracted to each other, but can’t do anything about it because of all the corsets.
  6. The hero says/does a thing that causes a rift! The heroine now thinks he is a bounder and a cad.
  7. Throw in a ball. Make sure to describe everyone’s outfits.
  8. The rival appears! He, or she, is clearly ALL WRONG.
  9. The hero and heroine have a series of tense conversations about nothing in particular. They’re all secretly about the fact that they really want to have sex.
  10. Time for another ball. What else are the characters going to do?
  11. Wouldn’t it be terrible if the hero and heroine had to work together to help out a random background character? JK THAT’S WHAT’S HAPPENING RIGHT NOW
  12. The hero and heroine have a conversation without blatantly insulting each other. THEY’RE MEANT TO BE YOU GUYS
  13. The rival is messing things up, oh no! Better go and lean meaningfully against something in the rain.
  14. Throw another dance party.
giphy dumbledore
Every day I’m Dumblin’. (image: giphy.com)
  1. Our hero makes an impassioned declaration of love. The heroine compromises her honour by letting him kiss her/see her ankles.
  2. But now the hero must go away for secret reasons!
  3. EVERYTHING IS RUINED
  4. The heroine stands on the brink of a very bad thing! She might fall into terrible poverty, or have to marry the rival, or turn twenty-two before she’s found a husband!
  5. The hero returns! The secret reasons are revealed and they’re always unbearably fluffy.
  6. Get married! Celebrate by throwing another ball, because it’s been a while.

THE END. Serve with plenty of tea.

 

Tips:

  • Give everyone the poshest-sounding names you can possibly think of. The heroine is allowed to shorten hers into a fun and quirky nickname, but no-one else is allowed. Apart from servants, but we don’t care about them.
  • Worried the setting might feel unrealistic? Flick through Wikipedia and drop in a couple of historical facts. It doesn’t matter what they’re about or how they’re delivered – it’s authentic.
  • Make sure your readers know the heroine is feisty by having her ride around on horses, loudly contradict people (including herself), and express opinions from the twenty-first century. There can never be any consequences for this.
  • Have your characters speak to each other in the twiddliest way possible, because it’s olden times. Pick a couple of fancy phrases: ‘ghastly’, ‘I say!’, and ‘how perfectly thrilling’ are all solid bets.
  • Never ever talk explicitly about sex. Your characters don’t have genitals, they have ‘flowers’ and ‘manhoods’.
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I don’t think I’ve ever found a more appropriate gif. (image: tumblr.com)
  • Chuck in as many titles as you can possibly find, the fancier the better.

 

And here’s one I prepared earlier…

 

The Lady Isabella Marietta Cressida Belle deLisle-Beaumont ran into the marble folly, breathing hard. Her flaming auburn hair was like a red waterfall – literally, because it was raining. Her delicate eau-de-nil muslin gown with the pearl buttons was soaked through, her dove-grey kid gloves clung to her fingers and her magnolia cashmere shawl, once so fine with its silver and gold embroidery, had been trailing in the mud.

Not that she cared how she looked, of course. How she looked meant nothing now. She leant against the pillar and stared out into the rain.

She knew she could not stay long. Sir Humphrey Thingington-Chomsfandleigh had said nothing when she rushed from the ballroom, no doubt remembering her lady mother. But soon he would come looking for her, and when he did she would have to explain about the vile, ghastly, repulsive Viscount Edgar Garbert-Smythe. The way he had looked at her, stroking his horrible black moustache – why, it was worse than the news that General de Malet had not managed to overthrow Napoleon in Paris in October 1812.

To think that she might actually have to marry him…

“Lady deLisle-Beaumont? Is that you?”

An incredibly deep, manly voice like smooth, smooth velvet came from somewhere over her shoulder. Lady Isabella went all tingly.

She turned, and saw Lieutenant George Fitzroy – all six and a half feet of him. His dark hair was attractively damp from the rain and there was water running down his razor-sharp cheekbones. Lady Isabella would have stabbed a man in the eye to be one of those raindrops. Then, she remembered the lieutenant was a bounder and a cad. He’d said such terrible things about dear Miss Cecily de Clare and she could never forgive him.

Lady Isabella drew herself up. “Have you come to gloat, sir?”

He frowned. It was the most perfect frown she had ever seen. “I beg your pardon?”

“I take it you know that Viscount Garbert-Smythe has made my father an offer. The first commercial cheese factory has opened in Switzerland and the Viscount has made millions from it. He wants my hand in marriage for shares in his enormous shipping company. Well, you were right, sir. My father means to see me married, no matter what I think.”

Lieutenant Fitzroy snarled, but sexily. “If he likes the man so much, he should marry him!”

“I would completely support that, but the Viscount doesn’t want Father, no matter how many love letters he writes. He wants me. And I have no choice!”

Lieutenant Fitzroy turned away. Lady Isabella leaned back against the pillar again. From that angle she had a very nice view of his bum.

She sighed, and forced herself to look away. “If only women could own property outright, vote, and have the means of making a respectable independent living!”

“Is wealth all your father wants? Does he not care for your happiness?”

Lady Isabella glared at him. “If I do not marry my family will lose everything! You could never understand!”

He whirled around and strode towards her. He pulled her close against his incredibly broad chest. Suddenly, Lady Isabella was thinking of flowers bursting into bloom, very tall and thick trees, and other metaphors that were making her feel quite hot and bothered. Lieutenant Fitzroy stared at her, intense and brooding.

“Then marry me!”

She gasped. “What are you saying?”

“Good God, woman! I adore you! I do not care about your Father’s questionable taste in potential boyfriends! Your misguided choice of a shawl embroidered in both silver and gold means nothing to me! I only know that without you my life was as empty and meaningless as…as…”

“As Napoleon’s attempts to invade Russia?”

He smiled, and tenderly brushed a lock of auburn hair away from her face. “Yes,” he murmured, “exactly.”

“Oh George,” she whispered, “do you mean it?”

“With all my heart. I have urgent business to attend to first, but when I return…”

“Business? What kind of business?”

“Oh, you know. Thoroughly honourable and above board man-business. I’ll tell you about it when we’re married. But I swear, my love, the moment I return we shall be wed! Now, kiss me!”

Lady Isabella blushed. “But George, we’re not married!”

He grinned, rakishly. “Yes, well.”

They kissed, and it was great. It was a good thing George had proposed, Lady Isabella thought. If anyone had seen them she was ruined. But if they married quickly, her honour would remain intact.

They went back to Thingington Manor together, arm in arm. Lady Isabella did not mind the rain now; it made George’s clothes all wet and clingy.

In the marble folly behind them, Viscount Edgar Garbert-Smythe stepped out from behind a marble pillar. He twirled his black moustache and sneered thoughtfully.

“Make no mistake, Lady deLisle-Beaumont,” he muttered, “you shall be mine.”

 

Let me know what you’d like me to look at next – and as always, take this recipe with a pinch of salt.

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Heh heh heh. (image: replycandy.com)

Book Recipes: How to Write a Military SF Novel

This is the first of my new Book Recipes series – a short look at how silly and cliched different genres can be. To kick things off I’m looking at military science fiction. Pack your laser gun and let’s get started!

 

Ingredients:

  • One lantern-jawed hero
  • One beautiful yet feisty token female character
  • One authority figure you can ignore
  • An assorted mix of sidekicks, all of whom can be described as ‘wise-cracking’
  • So many lasers
  • All the consonants from the awkward bits of the alphabet
  • A generous helping of background aliens
  • A thinly-veiled political allegory
  • One sneering villain (cape-wearing optional)
  • SPAAAAACE

 

Method

  1. Give your lantern-jawed hero a manly, monosyllabic name, a random military title and a big gun.
  2. Have the authority figure send him on a mission. This will be the only time the hero actually listens to his boss.
  3. Time for your political allegory. Put it in space, change the names a bit and you’re good to go.
  4. FIGHTING.
  5. Introduce your hero to the female lead. They’ll disagree at first, but sexily.
  6. Battle plans. These are very serious and important, so you must use the word ‘glower’ and make sure that people bang their fists on the table.
  7. The villain appears. There’s a tense conversation where smirking is involved.
  8. MORE FIGHTING. The sidekicks can come too.
  9. The hero returns – wounded! Use this opportunity to have a flirty yet meaningful discussion with the female lead, instead of tending to the shoulder wound all heroes get when they’re not really in serious trouble but want to look tough anyway.
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Target shown here. (image: tvtropes.com)
  1. Want to spice things up? Why not kill off a sidekick?
  2. The hero and heroine confess their love/attraction/general unspecified tingly feelings…
  3. …just before the final battle! Don’t forget to keep ignoring the boss.
  4. LASERS EVERYWHERE
  5. EXPLOSIONS
  6. ALIENS AND THAT
  7. Was the hero given a specific order? Time to COMPLETELY DISREGARD IT BECAUSE INSTINCT
  8. Time for the final showdown! Punctuate the hero and villain’s tense conversation with bits of the fight. A kick in the teeth is as good as a paragraph break.
  9. Worried about the female lead? Don’t be. She’s either captured by now or helping, but from a safe and feminine distance.
  10. The villain is defeated! Hurrah!
  11. Make sure your hero is proved right about everything, ever. Medals help with this, as does making out with the female lead.

THE END. Serve with a generous dusting of lasers.

 

Tips:

  • Finding it difficult to write a realistic setting? Just don’t bother. Tell your readers where and when they are at the beginning of every scene. It’ll look like a ‘star-date’ and it’s less work!
  • Not sure what rank to give the hero? It doesn’t really matter, as long as it sounds sexy. Captain and Lieutenant are always safe bets, but anything with the word ‘Brigadier’ in front of it is just going to sound crusty.
  • Stuck on naming your planets? Don’t be! Just smash together some of those awkward consonants and say it’s an alien language.
  • Want to show how tough your hero and his friends are? Only ever refer to them by surname. The one exception is attractive women – people might forget how hot they are if you treat them just like everyone else!
  • Struggling with describing futuristic technology? Say hello to your new best friends: the prefixes ‘holo’, ‘cyber’ and ‘techno’. Slap them on the front of any random word and it’s immediately clear that we are in THE FUTURE.
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Don’t forget to dress everyone in tinfoil. (image: pinterest.com)
  • Having trouble with your alien background characters? Just make them like people, but green (or blue). Actually coming up with your own unique culture completely from scratch that depends on an ecosystem, society and physiology that is utterly different from humanity would be haaaaaaarrrrrd.

 

And here’s one I prepared earlier…

 

The Pinnacle, 4570 AD

Somewhere near the Krebluk System

“Cole,” the Commander said, leaning back in his holo-chair, “do you know why I asked you here?”

Captain Brett Cole, 7th Laser Gunner Corps, stared straight ahead, his chin casting a small shadow on the Commander’s desk. He tried not to look at the red-haired Dr River Kamara, who stood behind the Commander’s chair, holding unnecessary papers and pouting. “No, sir.”

“Dammit, Cole!” the Commander yelled, slamming his fist on his cyber-desk. Something sparked. “You know damn well why you’re here! You took a risk! You snuck into the Kmyth base on Krebluk-6, armed with nothing but a small spoon, and single-handedly blew up Imperator Qrump’s technoport access generator! You put us all at risk! What would the Star Fleet have done if you’d gotten yourself captured?”

River gasped, sexily.

“I didn’t get captured, Commander,” Cole said, “instead, I blew up the whole damn base. Qrump’ll be sitting on his ass for months.”

River leaned forward. It was hot. “Commander,” she breathed, “you know I disagree with Captain Cole’s methods. He’s unorthodox. He’s a renegade. He’s a maverick, a tall maverick who looks good covered in space dirt. But be that as it may–”

The Commander held up a hand. “Thank you, Dr Kamara. But what you fail to realise is that Cole here not only got himself wounded–”

River gasped. It was still sexy. “Wounded?”

Cole nodded. “My shoulder. It’s nothing.”

“– not only got himself wounded, but he also jeopardised our position and put the safety of the entire Star Fleet at risk. He’ll be cleaning the latrines for weeks.”

The Commander got out of his holo-chair and stared out of the technoport viewing area, his hands clasped behind his back. The great purple moon of Gyk-jyk 5 twinkled at them, nearly obscured by the harsh rocks of the Jlkusa Asteroid Belt. A Krebluk spacecraft drifted past. The driver was blue, and he made a rude gesture when he saw them staring.

“Qrump is on the move,” the Commander said. “He’s planning something. Something big. I’ll be putting a strike team together – and you, Cole, will not be anywhere near it.”

“But sir–”

“Dammit, Cole! One more wrong move and you’re court-martialled. Do you understand me? If you go anywhere near the strike team’s secret training facility, you’re finished.”

Cole glowered at the Commander.

“Yes, sir.”

With one last look at River – who was still totally hot, by the way – he left the office.

He was going to break into the strike team’s secret training facility.

 

Take this recipe with a pinch of salt.

Alice-In-Wonderland-I-See-What-You-Did-There
Heh heh heh. (image: replycandy.com)