However, I've never been able to write speech in the "accepted" dialect - partly because, to me, Scottish speech is normal and I doubt I hear it as non-Scots would anyway. But I do love accents and different ways of speaking English, and in my direct speech I try to follow the rhythms and word patterns of the accents rather than altering the way the words are spelled, whether the speaker is English, American, Scots, Hungarian or whatever. Unless my character is taking the mick, of course :).
For Scottish characters, I also like to throw in some uniquely Scots words, some of which are pretty funny even to me! To illustrate, here's an excerpt from Hunting Karoly (now in print as part of my Seducing Scots anthology) - what happens when a modern, tipsy Glaswegian woman, meets a centuries old aritocratic vampire whose first language is Hungarian - and whose fastidious taste buds are not impressed by the mal-nourished and frequently aloholic blood of Glasgow's finest. And exactly how many Scots words are there for "drunk?"
(HUNTING KAROLY also available as an ebook)
The three Psychic Seductions novellas: Hunting Karoly, Guitar Man and Freeing Al - now together in print.
You're not meant to fall for the bad guy, are you? Not the vampire, nor the possessed, nor the ex-con...
Reluctant Scottish psychic Jenny discovers her true talent is hunting vampires. Yet when that vampire is the evil, sexy gorgeous Karoly, in his quite inappropriate antique kilt, will she be able to fulfill her potential?
Ellie is a strong psychic with a messy personal life. When she decides to clean up the latter, the last person she needs to encounter is carefree Scottish busker Chris, the best ever one night stand from her naughty past. Especially when something evil within him threatens them both.
When the vampiress Draguta, Karoly’s ex, comes to the Scottish Highlands with a social mission, she’s distracted by local pub landlord, Al MacNab – a large, sexy man with a dubious past, a lot of secrets, and some alluring bondage gadgetry in his cellar.
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Against my better judgment, I crossed the room and sat down beside him. I needed to sit somewhere before my knees gave out. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”
“Why, what do vampire hunters usually talk about?”
“I’m not a vampire hunter,” I said impatiently. “I’ve never even seen a vampire in my life, apart from you. And in case you hadn’t noticed, I was never the one doing the hunting!”
“But you’re still here.”
I frowned. “Why am I still here?”
By way of answering, he lifted the wine bottle.
I sighed and held out my glass. “You think I’m a total wino. You think if you drink my blood you’ll pass out for three nights.”
“I’d certainly get a little tipsy.”
“I’m not tipsy,” I confessed. “I’m completely rat-arsed.”
Glancing at him to see the effect of this admission, I saw the gold lights dancing in his eyes. Was he laughing at me again?
He said, “That’s another thing about this city. I speak seven languages fluently, including English, yet I understand only one word in five of anything that your people say to me. What the hell is ‘rat-arsed’?”
“Drunk,” I said. “Extremely drunk. Like Eskimos have lots of words for snow, Glaswegians have a thousand for drunk. Fu’, maroculous, arse-holed, stocious, pissed, steamboats…”
“Steamboats?”
“Don’t ask. And don’t mock. This is a fine city.” I sniffed, growing maudlin. “Oh it has its problems, sure, but there’s nowhere better…”
He blinked at me. “Are you encouraging me to stay in your fair city, vampire hunter?”
“Why should I care?” I muttered into my glass. “I won’t be here.”
“You will be at your Centre, fighting spirits?”
“Or not,” I said darkly.
“How did you set fire to your hair?”
By the time I’d explained that, both of our glasses were empty and he was laughing quietly. More surprisingly, perhaps, so was I, realizing for the first time that it was a funny story more than a personal tragedy.
Reaching across him for the bottle, I hiccupped. “All right, Charlie,” I said, splashing the last of the wine into the two glasses more or less equally, “What’s your story? What’s with the accent?”
“I do not have an accent,” he said with dignity. “My English is perfect.”
“Leesten to heem,” I mocked, “creature of the night…!”
“It’s been a long time since I tasted a vampire hunter,” he said conversationally.
I hooted derisively into my wine glass. “You won’t touch me—I’m too pissed for your refined taste buds.”
“Are you sure about that?” His deep, suddenly soft voice caused my stomach to lurch. I glanced up to find his darkened eyes on my lips. Worse, his hand resting on the sofa back moved and grasped my hair. Not that there was much for him to get hold of, but he managed to pinch enough of it between his strong, cool fingers to tug my head back.
His touch on my scalp was electrifying. Terror and lust seemed to have become the same thing, especially when his mesmerizing gaze dropped to my exposed jugular.
“A word to the wise, little vampire hunter,” he whispered. “Never bank on it.”
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:) Now, just for a laugh, see if you know or can guess the meaning of the following Scots/Glaswegian words - I'll tell you if you're right tomorrow!
1. Bahooky
2. Maroculous
3. Stoatin'
4. Nyaff
5. Wean
6. Stoor
7. Ashet
8. Pruch
9. Haver
10.Hurdies
2. Maroculous
3. Stoatin'
4. Nyaff
5. Wean
6. Stoor
7. Ashet
8. Pruch
9. Haver
10.Hurdies
Marie
