And what do you do?

By Lillian Francis, author of Lovers Entwined

I feel ill equipped to speak on behalf of Romance as a genre since my experience as both a reader and a writer is in the niche sub-genre of gay romance. However, borrowing that old phrase “what’s good for the goose is good for the gander’, I’m willing to bet that the trends that we see in gay romance are the same as the more mainstream side of the genre. It’s not uncommon to see fire fighters, cops, military personnel, FBI agents, doctors. Even stripper by night, fire fighter by day meets cop.

Actually, I haven’t read that last one, but now I really want to. That there is the reason these occupations are used, because despite the clichés they can produce””or because of them””those books sell.

So gay romance readers love a man in uniform? Yes, but not just a uniform. Any gun toting bad-ass will do and don’t even get me started on the cowboys. There must be more gay cowboys in our genre than there are real life cowboys left in the world.

But this post is all about unusual occupations, not the ones we read about every day. Get to the point, I hear you cry.

With the basic plot for Lovers Entwined established, the most important job was to find an occupation for Ewan. With hindsight his profession was perfectly obvious from the start; I just couldn’t see the wood for the trees.

Ewan is the driving force behind the story, or at least he is the vessel for the events that move the story forward. The things that happen in the story–that happen to Ewan””manifest themselves in his dreams. They would have happened whatever his occupation, but what if the dreams could be contributed to an overactive imagination or overwork. What if Ewan could put the dreams down to not only a desire for someone he couldn’t have, but him quite literally taking his work home with him?

My first idea was to make Ewan a struggling author, but how would Trey and Ewan meet? A struggling author doing freelance journalist work then, and Trey could approach him to write a campaign pamphlet. But how long would that take? Days, and then one would have to seek the other out to continue a connection. I needed them to be forced to work together again and again; continued contact turning contempt into friendship until they were actively enjoying their meetings, even finding excuses to be together.

What better way to explain Ewan’s dreams of strikingly familiar strangers–despite their old fashioned hairstyles and clothing””than to have him researching Trey’s family history. And so Ewan’s profession was established, and he slotted comfortably into the role of genealogist to the well-to-do families of Boston, Mass.

Genealogy (From the Greek, genea- generation, and, logos ““ knowledge.) is the study of families and the tracing of their lineage and history.

For Ewan being a professional genealogist is a detached exercise in historical archaeology, scraping away at dates and the various layers of information until the people, the stories, behind the facts are revealed.

Never before had he been so intrinsically linked to a client. He couldn’t deny the attraction he felt toward Trey, but it wasn’t just that. Somehow Ewan and Trey’s family histories overlapped time and time again, until their pasts seemed entwined in a dance as old as time.

Ewan had never expected any job to reveal so much about his own past, or provide him with such hope for his future. If he could only succeed where all others had failed.

Lovers Entwined by Lillian Francis is available to buy from Ellora’s Cave, Amazon and other ebook stockists.

Excerpt

Several hours of poring over meticulous handwritten scanned documents had established that Tristan Capell had returned to the US in late 1920 on a passport that had been issued, not at the outbreak of war as Ewan had expected, but in 1909.
This cemented Ewan’s conviction that the older Tristan had not traveled. If a young carefree Tristan had been the type to submit to documentation, then it stood to reason that the older Tristan would have followed suit and applied for appropriate travel documents.
So Ewan could conclude that there were no descendants to be had for Tristan Capell, unless he had sown his wild oats in Britain at some point between arriving in 1910 and returning home in 1920. With this in mind, Ewan had turned his attention across the ocean, returning to the websites of the record offices he had cut his genealogical teeth on.
Normally he would have started by searching the Birth, Marriage and Death records index for England and Wales, and, since Tristan had been in the country at the time, the 1911 census. This avenue of inquiry could still garner results, so Ewan ran a low priority search in the background while he concentrated all his efforts on the various Regimental Records databases.
After all, there had been a war on for half of the time Tristan had been in the country and he had been twenty four at the outbreak of what had optimistically been called “the war to end all wars”. Would such a young man, who had the adventurous spirit to travel halfway across the world, deny himself the chance to fight? Ewan didn’t think so.
This was what Ewan told himself, ignoring the niggling feeling that he knew this to be the case. He knew deep in his bones that Tristan Capell was a man with honor, one who would fight for a cause he believed in even if the fight wasn’t truly his own. How he knew this, Ewan was unaware, but he understood it as surely as he could comprehend that the sun burned with the intensity to consume all that got close.
He pushed down those ridiculous feelings, which he didn’t understand, and instead immersed himself in the familiar routine of research. The light dimmed outside his office windows, shadows stretching as day turned to dusk. When it became too gloomy to see, he stretched out the aching muscles in his back and stood. But he only wandered far enough to switch on the lights and refill his mug from the now tepid jug of coffee before returning to his exploration of the past.
Barbara had left at some point. He had the vague memory of acknowledging her cheerful goodbye, but he had no idea if she had left early or if he owed her overtime.
His eyes burned with the strain of staring continuously at the screen and the muscles in his neck were knotted and tight. Ten more minutes and then he would give up for the night and go home. Of course, he’d told himself that an hour ago, but something compelled him to keep on searching.
This time he would try”¦
His gaze flicked over the remaining regiments, scores of them yet to be explored. It would make sense to do them in order. He normally worked methodically in these matters when he had no clues to go on. It saved time in the long run.
“The Royal Lancashire Regiment”. He read the next name on the list, but his eyes kept drifting down a few lines to Highland Light Infantry.
He had no reason to suspect Tristan had taken up residence in Scotland, but he shifted the mouse, allowing the cursor to hover over the link that would take him to the Glasgow regiment.
The records page rolled across the screen before Ewan even realized he had clicked on the link. He was there now, he might as well take a look.
Typing Capell into the site’s internal search engine, Ewan narrowed the parameters to cover the decade that encompassed the First World War and hit enter with a degree of force born from tiredness.
Running his fingers up either side of his nose, he eased his glasses up until they wedged on his forehead, catching against the dark curve of his eyebrows with eye-watering intensity. Wearily, Ewan rubbed at his tired, burning eyes while he waited for the page to load.
Search has resulted in one match.
Blinking rapidly to clear the film that had settled in a thin layer over his eyeballs, Ewan read the screen again just to be certain he wasn’t hallucinating.
Search has resulted in one match.
Lt. Tristan Capell.
A completely random punt and it appeared he’d found him. After all, how many Tristan Capells could there possibly be?
Clicking on the link, he watched closely as the details appeared onscreen. If he was lucky, there would be attached original documents, but it was late and for now he was only interested in ensuring he had found the correct person. Date of birth matched and he couldn’t stop the tremor of excitement that ran through him as he read confirmation of the declared birthplace. Boston, Massachusetts.