Lena & Niklas – The Dancer’s Rival

If you’ve been following my writing journey, you’ll know that all my pre‑written novellas are now on Kindle Unlimited — and I’m thrilled to say that my LGBTQ+ historical novel has joined them just in time for Pride Month. It feels right to celebrate queer joy, queer history, and queer resilience with a story that means so much to me.

And speaking of joy… I’ve been deep in dance research lately. Not just the technical steps, but the emotion, the storytelling, the fire that lives inside movement. I’ve always loved dance — truly loved it. If life had gone differently, I would have chased ballroom with my whole heart.

But at thirteen, already 5ft 10, I was told I was “too tall” and “not pretty enough” to dance. Yes, someone actually said that. Harsh doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Thankfully, my grandfather didn’t believe in shutting doors. He taught me the dances he knew: the Gay Gordons, the Foxtrot, the Waltz. We’d go caravanning as kids, and in the evenings the music would start, and we’d dance. I can still feel the floor under my feet, the warmth of those lights, the way the world seemed to pause for a moment.

So when I say I’ve seen the dance that appears in my upcoming novella — I mean it. The Apache Dance is fierce, theatrical, dramatic, and I couldn’t resist giving it a Strictly Ballroom twist. (Yes, I adore that film. It’s chaotic, passionate, and unapologetically itself — everything dance should be.)

If you’re curious, here’s the clip I used as reference: https://youtu.be/MrL03kttQlo?si=2sg9v3gvMY1shvjb

The scene in the novella is nearly finished, and I cannot wait to share it with you. It will be joining the others on Kindle Unlimited very soon.

And in even bigger news — my publisher has just sent me the final edits for my first traditionally published book. Holding those pages, seeing the story polished and ready… it’s surreal. I’m excited, nervous, grateful, and absolutely buzzing.

Thank you for being here, for reading, for dancing through these stories with me. More soon — and trust me, you’ll want to see this dance.

Thanks for being here with me, Eleanor Whitlock

I don’t think anyone warned me just how long the publishing process truly is. Not the polite version you hear in passing — the real version, the one that stretches on like a slow‑moving train while you stand on the platform clutching your manuscript and your hopes in equal measure.

As a new writer, I’m discovering that patience is apparently part of the job description. And let me tell you: I am coping about as well as a small child on Christmas Eve. Unbearably excited. Mildly annoying. Checking the metaphorical window every five minutes to see if Santa (or my publisher) has arrived with news.

While I wait — and wait — and wait — I’ve been writing. Little novellas, small worlds, quiet romances that were originally meant to be reader perks once my books found their audience. But the truth is, I can’t bear to let them sit unseen any longer.

So I’ve decided to release a few of them on Amazon’s Kindle WDP space while the bigger publishing wheels turn behind the scenes. Think of them as small lanterns I’m sending out into the dark, hoping they find the readers who need them.

If you’re also a writer in the waiting season, consider this a hand squeezed in solidarity. If you’re a reader, thank you for being here at the very beginning. It means more than you know.

This journey is slow, but it’s unfolding — and I’m learning to savour the anticipation.

In a world that often celebrates instant gratification, slow-burn romance offers something different: anticipation.

The beauty of a slow-burn story isn’t simply that two characters fall in love. It’s how they get there.

It’s the conversation that lasts a little longer than it should. The glance held for a heartbeat too long. The growing awareness that someone has quietly become important before either character is willing to admit it.

As romance readers, we’re not just invested in the destination. We’re invested in every step of the journey.

A first touch means more when we’ve waited chapters for it.

A declaration of love carries greater weight when both characters have fought their feelings, challenged their assumptions, and risked vulnerability to reach that moment.

The most memorable romances aren’t always the fastest. They’re often the ones that allow space for connection to deepen naturally.

Slow-burn romance gives characters time to become real people rather than simply romantic leads. We see their flaws, fears, hopes, and insecurities. We watch trust develop. We witness friendship become affection and affection become something impossible to ignore.

Readers of slow-burn romance often describe the experience as addictive. Not because of dramatic twists or constant action, but because tension itself becomes a story. The question isn’t whether these characters belong together. It’s when they will finally realise it.

That anticipation creates emotional investment.

Every near-miss matters.

Every interrupted conversation matters.

Every stolen glance matters.

And when love finally arrives, it feels earned.

Perhaps that’s why slow-burn romance continues to resonate so deeply. It reminds us that some of life’s most meaningful connections aren’t rushed. They unfold one moment at a time.

And sometimes, the waiting is the most romantic part of all.

Question: What is your favourite slow-burn romance moment—the first glance, the first touch, or the moment one character realises they’ve fallen in love?

This post is a day late — and technically I could blame the heat entirely… but if I’m being honest, that wouldn’t be the full story.

Yes, the heat has been a lot. I am very English, very fair, and burn with absolutely no warning or mercy. I once got sunburned at a Bon Jovi concert at Milton Keynes Bowl — and that was on a day that was overcast and raining. I wish I was exaggerating, but I’m not. That’s just the level we’re working at here.

For context, while my hair is a dark mahogany red, my dad is properly bright red-haired — and I have completely inherited his colouring. Which means summer is less “glow” and more “manage the damage”.

So yes, the heat has made everything feel slower, heavier, and harder to focus on.

But.

If I’m being completely honest — the writer’s block was already there before the temperature climbed.

When the Words Just… Don’t

I think sometimes writer’s block gets blamed on the wrong things.

We say:

• “It’s the weather”
• “I’m just tired”
• “I’ll come back to it later”

And sometimes those things are true.

But often, at least for me, it’s something quieter.

It’s not that I can’t write — it’s that I don’t quite want to sit with the thing I’m trying to write.

So instead, I’ve been doing that slightly passive avoidance we all know:

• opening the document
• scrolling a bit
• adjusting a sentence
• closing it again

Telling myself I’ll come back to it when I’m more “in the mood”.

And then the heat arrived — and kindly gave me something practical to blame.

Heat + Writing = Not Friends

That said, the heat really doesn’t help.

At the moment it feels like:

• concentration lasts about 10 minutes max
• everything is slightly too bright
• your brain feels slower than usual
• and even sitting still feels like effort

Writing, which already requires focus, reflection, and emotional energy, suddenly feels like trying to do everything underwater.

And when you’re already a little stuck, it just compounds it.

Letting It Sit (Without Letting It Go)

So instead of forcing it, I’ve mostly stepped back.

Not abandoning the work — just letting it wait.

Because I think there’s a difference between:

• abandoning a piece
• and giving it space to breathe

Right now, mine is definitely in the second category.

I know I’ll come back to it. It just isn’t happening on a strict timetable this week.

And maybe that’s okay.

Small Wins Still Count

Even this post feels like a small step forward.

It’s not the project I “should” be working on. It’s not the scene that’s been sitting half-written.

But it is writing.

And sometimes that’s enough to keep things moving quietly in the background.

So… How Are You All Coping With the Heat?

Genuinely — how is everyone managing?

• Writing less?
• Switching projects?
• Just surviving and calling that a win?

Because right now, I feel like a slightly overheated ghost drifting between documents and cups of water.

And I suspect I’m not the only one.

When I began researching my new novel set in 1893, I thought I was stepping into familiar territory — an era of telegrams, lamplight, and the quiet hum of a world shifting toward modernity. But the deeper I went, the more I realised I was entering a landscape I had never truly explored.

A landscape shaped by Boston Marriages.

The term itself comes from Henry James’s The Bostonians, a novel that captured the emotional and political intensity of two women whose bond defied easy categorisation. James never used the phrase explicitly, but the relationships he depicted inspired the language that followed — a way for society to describe two women living together in long‑term partnership, financially independent, emotionally intertwined, and quietly radical.

And that discovery opened a door for me.

Because these women weren’t simply roommates or companions. They were building lives on their own terms in a world that insisted women should not — could not — choose independence, let alone each other.

Researching them felt like uncovering a hidden archive of courage.

It reminded me of one of my favourite films, Victor/Victoria, with its playful, subversive exploration of identity and performance. That film taught me early on that visibility is a kind of rebellion — that sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is refuse to apologise for who they are.

In 1893, my heroines don’t have the rainbow flag. They don’t have language like “queer” or “pride.” What they have is something quieter but no less powerful: the knowledge that their love is real, and the determination to protect it.

And yet, writing this story in 2026, I can’t help but see the thread that connects them to us — from the coded companionships of the 19th century to the rainbow banners that now fly openly in the wind.

That thread is defiance. Tender, steady, unyielding.

In my book, Josephine finally speaks the truth she has carried for years. Her words became the heartbeat of the entire story:

“I understand perfectly,” Josephine said, holding her ground. “It is not illegal. We call it companionship. A life built on mutual support, independence, and choice. You cannot forbid it because it is lawful. And if we legislate against it, then women will learn of it. They will see that they can live, work, and love without surrendering to society’s narrow expectations. But until then…” Her voice hardened, eyes blazing. “…until then, it is ours to claim.”

From my upcoming novel The Quiet Rebellion of Adelaide Murphy

Writing this book has reminded me that love has always found a way — quietly in parlours, boldly on stages, secretly in shared homes, and now proudly in the open.

And I feel honoured to bring these forgotten stories into the light.

Helping my daughter revise for her GCSE English exam wasn’t something I expected to influence my writing life — but stories have a way of slipping in through the side door. We’ve spent the last few weeks talking through Jekyll and Hyde: hidden identity, secret desires, repression, double lives, the fear of social exposure. All those Victorian tensions simmering beneath the surface. And as we talked about characters forced to conceal who they are, torn between public respectability and private impulse, something in me sparked.

I usually write between the two world wars — the glamour, the resilience, the quiet ache of that era has always been my home. But listening to my daughter analyse Victorian repression with such clarity made me realise how rich that period is for the kind of stories I love: slow‑burn longing, emotional restraint, and characters who must navigate the dangerous space between who they are and who the world demands them to be.

So I’m stepping into a new time frame for my next book.

My upcoming project, The Quiet Rebellion of Adelaide Murphy, is set in 1893 London — all gaslight, fog, ink‑stained fingers and whispered defiance. It follows two women living double lives in a city that has no language for what they feel: Adelaide Murphy, a political writer hiding behind a male pseudonym, and Josephine Webb, a young suffragist whose fire refuses to be dimmed. Their story is one of secrecy, courage, and the quiet revolution that begins when two women see each other clearly for the first time.

It’s outside my usual era, outside my usual romantic pairings — and yet I’m completely invested. There’s something thrilling about stepping into Victorian London with its shadows, its constraints, and its unspoken desires. And there’s something deeply moving about writing a love story that could only exist in the spaces between what society allowed and what the heart demanded.

I’ll be sharing more about Adelaide and Josephine as the project unfolds, but for now, consider this your first glimpse into a new chapter for me — one inspired, unexpectedly, by GCSE revision at the kitchen table.

Thanks for reading — it means a lot to have you here as I explore new creative ground. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

“Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage.”
— Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5

Shakespeare wrote those words at the edge of despair, when ambition has burned itself out and all that’s left is a stunned awareness of time passing. Today, though, they arrived in my mind much more quietly—while standing in the kitchen, watching my daughter get ready for her first GCSE exam.

There was no thunder, no grand soliloquy. Just the soft clatter of a spoon in a cereal bowl, a nervous smile, a blazer shrugged on as if it suddenly weighed more than it had yesterday. And then she was gone, stepping onto her own small stage, to strut and fret her hour like every child before her who has ever had to prove themselves under fluorescent lights.

For a little while, I’ve stepped away from my writing. Not because the stories have left me—they’re still there, tapping patiently at the back of my mind—but because this moment felt like one that deserved my full attention. Writing, like ambition, can wait. Childhood does not.

That Shakespeare quote reminds us how fleeting everything is. How we rush and worry and fill our days with noise, only to realise later that what mattered was so often quiet and ordinary: breakfasts, bus stops, last-minute reminders to breathe. As a romance writer, I live in those moments. I build my stories not around grand gestures alone, but around pauses—glances held too long, hands brushing, the unspectacular bravery of showing up day after day.

Romance, at its heart, is an argument against Macbeth’s despair. Yes, life moves quickly. Yes, our hours on the stage are limited. But what we do within them matters. Love matters. Care matters. Staying when things are difficult matters.

The kind of love I write about isn’t flashy. It’s the slow-burn, weathered sort—the kind that knows time will keep moving regardless, and chooses connection anyway. It’s the same love that makes you put your work aside, silence the noise of deadlines and expectations, and sit with your child before an exam you can’t take for them.

I’ll return to my writing soon. I always do. The stories will be richer for this pause, steadied by the reminder that life isn’t something to conquer or optimise. It’s something to witness, to hold briefly, to love fiercely while you can.

We’re all poor players in our own way, moving through scenes we don’t fully understand until they’re over. But if we’re lucky—if we pay attention—some of those scenes glow long after the curtain falls.

And those are the moments I write for.

There’s a particular kind of quiet that settles over the house just after dawn — the soft, pearly light that slips through the curtains, the kettle humming its familiar tune, the world not quite awake yet. It’s in this stillness that my writing day begins.

I’ve always believed that stories grow best in the spaces where life slows down. Before I open my laptop or reach for my manuscript pages, I take a moment to breathe in the morning: the scent of tea leaves, the coolness of the windowpane, the faint birdsong drifting across the garden. These small rituals anchor me, reminding me why I write the kinds of stories I do — the ones where longing simmers beneath the surface, where glances matter, where hearts unfold slowly and tenderly.

By mid‑morning, I’m at my desk — a slightly battered oak table that has seen more drafts than I can count. There’s always a candle burning (today it’s lavender and bergamot), a stack of notebooks, and a scattering of vintage postcards I’ve collected from markets over the years. I like to imagine the lives behind those faded ink messages. Who wrote them? Who waited for them? What hopes were tucked between the lines?

Those questions often find their way into my work.

Today I’m deep in the world of Hotel Aurelia, where secrets linger in the corridors and love grows in the quiet spaces between duty and desire. I’ve been working on a scene where two characters finally allow themselves to be vulnerable — not in grand declarations, but in the soft, hesitant honesty that feels far more intimate. Slow‑burn romance thrives on these moments, the ones where a single touch can say more than a paragraph of dialogue.

Research is always woven into my day, too. This week I’ve been reading about 1930s stationery — the weight of the paper, the colours of the inks, the etiquette of letter‑writing. There’s something deeply romantic about the idea of waiting for a letter, of holding someone’s words in your hands. It’s a detail that will slip into a chapter soon, I’m sure.

As the afternoon light shifts, I often step away from the desk for a walk. There’s a lane near my home lined with old hedgerows that leads to a park, and it never fails to spark ideas. Sometimes it’s the way the wind moves through the leaves; sometimes it’s a memory of a story my grandmother once told me. Inspiration rarely arrives loudly — it whispers.

By evening, I’m usually back at the desk, reading over the day’s pages. Some lines stay. Some don’t. But every word brings me closer to the heart of the story, and that’s what I love most about this work — the slow, steady shaping of something that didn’t exist before.

Writing slow‑burn romance is, in many ways, an act of faith. It asks you to linger, to savour, to trust that the quietest moments can be the most powerful. And every day, as I sit down to write, I’m reminded of how lucky I am to share these stories with you.

Thank you for being here — for reading, for supporting, for stepping into these worlds with me.

There’s so much more to come.

There are days when being a writer feels a bit like being a small child in a sweet shop. You walk in with every intention of choosing one thing — one neat idea, one tidy storyline — and then something glitters in the corner of your eye and suddenly you’re off, pockets full, attention scattered, heart racing with possibility.

That happened to me recently while watching the news.

England, at the moment, seems to be in a constant state of industrial unrest. Strikes here, walkouts there, headlines that make the rest of the world raise an eyebrow. It’s easy to roll our eyes, to sigh at the inconvenience, to mutter that the country is becoming a bit of a joke. But beneath the irritation — beneath the bins piling up, the delays, the disruption — there is something we too often forget.

There is humanity.

There are people behind those headlines. People who are tired, worried, stretched thin. People who want the same things we all want: a fair life, a safe home, a sense of dignity. And as I watched the coverage of the Birmingham refuse workers’ strike, something stirred in me — something old, something familiar.

Because we’ve been here before.

Almost a century ago, in 1926, the miners of County Durham stood on their own picket lines. Their fight was different in detail but identical in spirit: wages slashed, hours lengthened, families pushed to the brink. Entire villages held their breath together. Women ran communal kitchens. Children queued for bread. Men who had survived the trenches now faced a different kind of battle — one fought not with rifles but with resolve.

And as I watched today’s workers standing in the rain beside their trucks, I saw the same quiet courage. The same frustration. The same determination not to be pushed past breaking point. The same truth that history keeps whispering people don’t strike for fun. They strike because something essential has been threatened.

That echo — that human thread stretching from 1926 to now — is what inspired the new book I’m writing.

Not the politics. Not the headlines. But the people.

• The mother trying to stretch a week’s food across a month.
• The man who feels invisible until the day he stops working.
• The community that closes ranks when one of their own is hurting.
  The quiet, stubborn belief that life should be fairer than this.

These are the stories that pull me off my planned path and into a new one. These are the sparks that derail me in the sweetest way. These are the moments when the news stops being noise and becomes a doorway — a reminder that the past is never as distant as we think, and that the struggles of ordinary people are timeless.

So yes, England may look chaotic on the world stage right now. But beneath the surface, there is something deeply human happening. Something worth noticing. Something worth writing about.

And that is how a headline became a heartbeat, and a heartbeat became a book.

There are moments in a writer’s life when the world of the page and the world outside it quietly acknowledge one another — a brief, glimmering overlap, like two silhouettes passing behind the same curtain. It happened to me today in the most unexpected way.

In my day‑to‑day work — the part of my life I keep tucked discreetly behind the pen name — I was asked about something I had once researched for a novel: functional mutism. I had explored it in depth while writing When Quiet Hearts Meet, trying to understand the emotional architecture of silence, the way fear can close a throat, the way tenderness can coax it open again.

And suddenly, there it was. Not in a book. Not in a draft. But in real life, spoken aloud in a simple question.

It was a strange, still moment — the kind that makes you pause. Because as authors, we spend so much time trying to understand people from the inside out. We study the quiet spaces between words. We learn how silence can be a shield, a wound, or a language all its own. We learn that the things left unsaid often carry the most weight.

Research becomes empathy. Empathy becomes story. And sometimes, story becomes a way of seeing the world more clearly.

I’ve always believed slow‑burn romance is built on this kind of attention — the soft noticing, the patient listening, the understanding that hearts rarely speak in declarations. They speak in glances, hesitations, half‑finished sentences, and the courage it takes to try again.

Today reminded me that the quietest truths in fiction often come from the quietest truths in life. And every so often, life whispers back, as if to say: Yes. You understood this correctly.

It’s a small thing. But small things are where my stories live.

Thank you for reading — the quiet stories are often my favourites to share