There is a peculiar stage in a writer’s life that nobody really prepares you for.
You finish a manuscript.
You polish it.
You send it out into the world.
And then… you wait.
Sometimes for weeks. Sometimes for months.
In the meantime, life carries on. You begin another story. You change a chapter you promised yourself you would leave alone. You convince yourself that silence means absolutely nothing, and then, five minutes later, convince yourself it means everything.
Occasionally, though, something happens.
A little flicker of interest.
Nothing certain. Nothing ready to announce. Just enough to make you wonder whether a story you have lived with quietly for months might perhaps have found its way to the right person.
And that brings a different kind of waiting.
Hopeful waiting.
I think that may be harder.
Because once there is even the smallest possibility, it becomes very tempting to race ahead in your imagination. You picture conversations that have not happened yet, books that do not exist yet, and futures that are still entirely unwritten.
So I am learning to stay where I am.
To be pleased without assuming.
Hopeful without expecting.
And, most importantly, to keep writing.
There is something rather fitting about it, really. I write slow-burn romance, after all. Perhaps I should have expected publishing to involve its own version of longing, uncertainty and waiting for someone to make the next move.
For now, one of my stories is simply sitting somewhere beyond my desk, being considered.
Sometimes two completely unrelated things collide and suddenly there is a novel.
The Dressmaker of Bloomsbury began with the second kind.
The first spark was political.
With so much discussion in recent years about governments, confidence, political instability and whether those in power still have the support needed to continue, someone mentioned to me that Britain had faced a very similar moment a century ago.
That sent me back to 1924.
Britain’s first Labour government, led by Ramsay MacDonald, was a minority government and had been in office for only a matter of months when controversy erupted around what became known as the Campbell Case.
The case concerned the decision to prosecute — and then withdraw the prosecution of — J. R. Campbell, connected with the communist newspaper Workers’ Weekly. The handling of the affair became politically explosive. On 8 October 1924, the House of Commons voted for a select committee to investigate the circumstances surrounding the withdrawal of the prosecution. MacDonald had treated the issue as one of confidence, and the following day he requested the dissolution of Parliament. A general election followed. (House of Commons Library)
Suddenly 1924 did not feel particularly distant.
The arguments were different. The parties were different. The circumstances were entirely their own.
But that atmosphere — politicians watching one another, a government that might fall, newspapers full of speculation, MPs wondering whether they would still have seats in a few weeks’ time — felt remarkably alive.
And somewhere in the middle of all that political noise, I remembered a completely different conversation.
A work colleague once told me about something she had overheard while attending her own wedding dress fitting.
It had nothing to do with Parliament.
Nothing to do with votes of confidence.
Nothing to do with Ramsay MacDonald.
But the idea of the dress fitting as a private little world, where people talk, secrets surface and lives are quietly being arranged while fabric is pinned and hems are measured, stayed with me.
And those two ideas began to meet.
Enter Grayson
Grayson Neal became my Member of Parliament.
He is a Conservative MP for South Kensington, comfortable in Westminster, accustomed to committee rooms, speeches, dinners and the constant flow of political paper that seems to breed on every available surface.
By the autumn of 1924, politics is becoming increasingly unstable around him.
In the manuscript, Westminster is quite literally described as “drowning in paper,” with Grayson surrounded by constituency correspondence, committee reports and an increasingly uncertain government.
But Grayson’s personal life appears, at first, considerably tidier.
He has a fiancée.
Helen is his closest friend — almost family to him — and the people around them see the marriage as obvious.
Appropriate.
Expected.
The trouble is that expectation and love are not always the same thing.
And then there is the woman making Helen’s wedding dress.
Enter Ethel
Ethel Simmons is a dressmaker.
She does not move through Grayson’s world of Westminster dinners and political connections. She comes from somewhere quite different.
But that does not mean she understands less.
Quite the opposite.
One of the things I have enjoyed most about writing Ethel is that people repeatedly underestimate her because of what she does for a living.
They see the dressmaker.
They do not necessarily see the mind behind her.
By the time Grayson takes Ethel to a political dinner, she is quite capable of holding her own in a room full of MPs. When one Labour politician assumes she cannot possibly understand parliamentary affairs, she calmly demonstrates otherwise — including discussing the Campbell Case and the consequences she believes may follow from it.
What matters to Grayson is not that he rescues her from that room.
He does not need to.
He watches.
He listens.
And he rather enjoys seeing everyone else discover what he already knows.
Later, while they are dancing, he tells her that what pleased him was watching people underestimate her — and then watching her prove them wrong.
That relationship became the heart of the book for me.
Two Very Different Worlds
That is where the original wedding-dress story became so useful.
A dressmaker’s fitting room and the Palace of Westminster appear to have almost nothing in common.
One is intimate.
The other is public.
One deals in silk, pins, measurements and whispered conversation.
The other deals in speeches, votes, alliances and political survival.
Yet both are places where people are being fitted into roles.
That became one of the themes running through The Dressmaker of Bloomsbury.
Grayson has a role prepared for him.
Ethel has one too.
So does Helen.
Society is very good at deciding what everyone ought to do next.
Who should marry whom.
Which woman belongs in which room.
Whose opinions carry weight.
Whose work deserves recognition.
And then people have the inconvenient habit of becoming themselves.
When the Story Changed
Originally, the wedding itself was the obvious centre of the story.
But as I wrote, something more interesting happened.
Grayson and Helen became people who genuinely loved one another — just not in quite the way everybody assumed.
They are best friends.
They have history.
They care deeply for one another.
That made the situation far more complicated than simply writing an unwanted engagement.
And then Helen’s past returned.
The man she had loved during the war came back into her life, and suddenly the future that had seemed settled began to shift.
Only after Helen leaves does Grayson and Ethel’s story properly begin.
By then, however, the groundwork has already been laid.
He has noticed her.
She has challenged him.
They have become friends before either of them quite understands what that friendship is turning into.
Which, given my fondness for slow-burn romance, was probably inevitable.
Why 1924 Worked So Well
The political setting gave the novel something I did not expect when I began.
It gave Grayson uncertainty.
An MP can appear powerful from the outside, but in October 1924 even his career is subject to forces far larger than himself.
The government falls.
Parliament dissolves.
Suddenly there is an election to fight.
In the manuscript, the change is almost immediate: after the confidence crisis, Westminster erupts into meetings, telegrams, campaigning and nervous predictions about what comes next.
And while Grayson is disappearing under election work, Ethel turns up with food and quietly inserts herself into the chaos.
That, perhaps, says more about their relationship than any grand declaration could.
History gives them the pressure.
The romance grows in the spaces between it.
From Conversation to Fiction
I love the strange route stories sometimes take.
A modern conversation about political confidence led me to the Campbell Case.
The Campbell Case led me to Westminster in 1924.
A colleague’s story about a wedding dress fitting gave me another world entirely.
And somewhere between Parliament and a dressmaker’s workroom, Grayson and Ethel appeared.
That is one of my favourite things about writing historical fiction.
History rarely hands you a complete story.
Instead, it gives you fragments.
A newspaper report.
A political crisis.
A dress.
A conversation.
A room.
A person who was not supposed to be noticed.
And then, occasionally, those fragments begin talking to one another.
That is how The Dressmaker of Bloomsbury came alive.
The Dressmaker of Bloomsbury is currently a work in progress. I’ll share more from Grayson and Ethel’s world as the story develops.
It feels like one story is always opening the door for the next.
The Continental Promise has taken an unexpected but exciting journey. What began as a love story has developed into Women’s Fiction, with a strong love arc at its heart. After a great deal of editing, rewriting and completion, it is now ready to be sent to a different publishing route than I would normally pursue. It has been quite a journey with this book, and I’m looking forward to seeing where it leads.
Meanwhile, The Bookshop on King’s Parade has reached another important stage. It has been fully edited and has now been sent out. So, for the moment, there is nothing more I can do except wait — and perhaps try not to check my inbox quite so often!
And then there is the next story.
The Mile 312 Cafe — currently a working title — is beginning to take shape.
This time, I’m heading back to 1935 and the Dust Bowl, into the harsh landscape of the Panhandle states and Oklahoma. It is a very different setting from my previous stories, and one I am already finding fascinating. There is something about that period — the hardship, uncertainty, resilience and the people trying to hold on to hope — that has captured my imagination.
It is still early days, and the story is developing as I write and research. I’m looking forward to seeing where it takes me.
So, while one book waits, another moves towards its next chapter, and a new story is beginning to find its voice.
I’m delighted to introduce something new here at The Quiet Chapter — a place for readers who would like the opportunity to read some of my stories before publication.
The Quiet Chapter ARC Readers Group will offer advance reading copies of selected new releases in return for an honest review. There is no expectation of a positive review — simply read the story and share your genuine thoughts.
And we’re beginning with Christmas. 🎄
Christmas at Glenbruar Cottage
Scotland, 1919. A remote Highland cottage. Christmas — and the possibility of beginning again.
My forthcoming historical romance novella, Christmas at Glenbruar Cottage, is the first title available to ARC readers.
Set in the Scottish Highlands in the aftermath of the First World War, it is a quiet, atmospheric slow-burn romance filled with winter, isolation, old memories and two people discovering that life might still have something unexpected waiting for them.
The ARC is available now through Booksprout, ahead of the novella’s Amazon publication on 1 December.
I’m planning more novella ARC opportunities through The Quiet Chapter, so readers who enjoy shorter historical romances will have more chances to discover new stories before they are released.
I’m also currently working on something rather bigger: a full-length historical romance novel.
When it is ready, I’m hoping to open that manuscript to ARC readers too, giving members of the group the opportunity to read and review it before its wider release. I’m also considering publishing the finished novel on Amazon afterwards, so ARC readers may get to be there right at the beginning of its journey.
If you enjoy historical romance, slow-burn relationships, atmospheric settings and character-led stories, I would love to have you along.
I am so pleased to share that While the House Stood Silent is now available.
This is a story of love, loss, and the things left unsaid, set against the shadow of war. It is a book close to my heart—one that explores how even in the quietest places, lives can be changed forever.
If you enjoy emotional historical fiction, slow-burn romance, and stories that linger long after the final page, I hope you will consider reading it.
The last couple of weeks have been a little quieter here than usual. A family emergency pulled me away for a short time, but I’m glad to say things have settled, and I’m back at my desk, fully focused on the work again.
During that pause, I came across The Letter Review short story competition on social media. I’d been developing an idea for a novella and already had the bare bones sketched out, so I shaped it into a standalone short story and submitted it under the title The Shape of Home. Whether it’s successful or not — and with so many wonderful writers entering, it’s perfectly understandable if it isn’t — the experience reminded me how satisfying it is to complete something shorter, something self‑contained, something that doesn’t require 50–80 thousand words to breathe.
If it doesn’t place, I’m considering creating a new page on the website dedicated to free short stories, so readers can enjoy these smaller pieces as they arrive. It was a pleasure to write, and I’d love to share more of them.
In a few days, the website will shift into its September theme — a new month, a new focus. Thank you, as always, for your patience and kindness.
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