Category: crime Page 18 of 22

Guest Post from Ellie Holmes: Why all need a cheerleader

On September 22, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Contemporary Romantic Fiction, crime, Fiction, Romance

I’m delighted to welcome Ellie Holmes to my little blog today! This is a great post- I definitely need all the cheerleading I can get!

Over to you Ellie…

Why we all need a cheerleader

We all need a cheerleader in our lives, someone who supports us in whatever we choose to do. A person who is there when the going gets tough with a supportive smile, a reassuring squeeze of the hand or an encouraging nod. A person who will listen calmly as we rant about the injustices that have befallen us or which we imagine might have befallen us. Someone to share the wine (whine?) with.

Our cheerleader is a person who has the clarity of vision to look at any given situation and whilst still playing the role of our cheerleader can see where we might have taken a wrong turn and not be afraid to tell us so.

Our cheerleader is someone who knows us inside out, our limitations and our strengths. They know what we are capable of without the shadow of self doubt darkening their minds as it so often does our own. That is why they know we can succeed at whatever endeavour we have set our minds on and can calm our fears when we question ourselves. Sometimes they and only they can see our true potential and push us along the road to achieving it. That is when a cheerleader becomes an enabler.

How many of us would be where we are today and have achieved the things we have achieved without that inspiring teacher or role model, that parent or other relative who took the time and trouble to build up our self confidence? That someone special who made us believe in ourselves and that anything is possible.

Some have always been in our lives, others arrive late and leave early. But if you have experienced the power of having a cheerleader of our own, you never forget it and you are never the same again.

If you have someone like that in your life be grateful, recognise their contribution for what it is and, if you can, repay the favour by being there for them too. If it is too late for that, try to pay it forward by being a cheerleader for someone else.

There have been countless studies done into the feelings of well being evoked in us when we help others. Those same feelings are not replicated when the only person we are helping is ourselves. So, when the opportunity presents itself and you can help someone else, be their cheerleader, help them as someone once helped you and keep the cycle of goodwill spinning.

Having a cheerleader is a wonderful gift. Being one is even better.

***

the-tregelian-hoard-cover

Blurb from…

A GOLDEN HOARD JUST WAITING TO BE DISCOVERED…

With her engagement in tatters, Jonquil Jones, a Portable Antiquities specialist, moves to Cornwall for a fresh start. When a report arrives of a treasure trove that has lain hidden underground for centuries, she can feel her soul stirring with excitement.

Is it a one off or the beginning of an extraordinary discovery? It’s Jonquil’s job to find out. There is only one problem: the man who reported the find, Sebastian Ableyard, is the man Jonquil holds responsible for the break-up of her engagement.

Can Jonquil, with the help of Cornishman, Drew Danvers, uncover the ancient landscape’s secrets in time or will plundering treasure hunters beat them to it? And can Jonquil find a way to set aside her fears and risk her heart again on love?

Set against the stunning backdrop of the Cornish countryside and combining heart and soul with a dash of danger, The Tregelian Hoard is the first novella in the exciting new Jonquil Jones Mystery Series by Ellie Holmes.

***

Excerpt from The Tregelian Hoard:-

Jonquil parked her red Mini Cooper beside the farm shop. As she thumbed her car alarm a blue Triumph Stag roared up and parked across the yard in a shower of gravel. She watched as the driver leapt from the car and pocketed the keys without locking it. Dressed in jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt, he was tall and slender with dark, curly hair.

Catching sight of Jonquil, the man halted. ‘Hello there. Shop’s closed I’m afraid but I can probably get Mum to open up again if I ask her nicely.’ He smiled disarmingly, revealing a pair of cute, deep-set dimples.

‘Drew Danvers?’ Jonquil asked, hazarding a guess. As she came closer and mindful of her aunt’s lively description, Jonquil was left in no doubt. The man’s eyes were the deepest, richest blue Jonquil had ever seen. A Cornish sea on a summer’s day.

Jonquil felt her heart flutter in response to the man’s keen gaze and thrust her car key into the pocket of her denim jacket, letting the edge of the key bite into her palm. You don’t need anyone, remember?

***

Paula Guyver

Bio

Ellie Holmes writes full length commercial women’s fiction with a touch of romantic suspense and romantic mystery novellas – books that have heart and soul with a dash of danger. Ellie takes her inspiration from the beautiful Essex countryside and the sublime Cornish coast. Romantic and engaging, Ellie’s style of writing will draw you in and keep you turning the pages. Heart-warming stories and compelling characters will stay with you long after you close her books. The Tregelian Hoard is the first novella in the Jonquil Jones Mystery Series.
http://www.ellieholmesauthor.com

http://www.facebook.com/EllieHWriter

Twitter @EllieHWriter

http://www.pinterest.com/EllieHWriter

Amazon Author Page http://Author.to/EllieHomes

***

Thanks again for such a positive post. I’m very lucky to have a few cheerleaders in my life- I hope you all have them too!

Happy reading,

Jenny x

The Need to Write

By Jenny Kane

On September 17, 2016

In Blog, Books For Children, Contemporary fiction, Contemporary Romantic Fiction, crime, Fiction, Historical fiction, Jenny Kane, News, Romance

It’s pouring with rain outside- it often is down here in the South West of England. Even though it is only 8am in the morning, the corner of the café in which I sit and write every morning is filling up fast.

I’m a familiar face in here. I usually sit at the same table- although only because it has good light – I’m not precious about sitting in the same spot or anything (despite the plaque on the wall that claims the opposite!). Consequently I am something of a fixture and fitting, and people that come to the café regularly see me here, writing away, every time they come through the door. There is even a rumour that I keep a rolled up sleeping bag and pillow under the table, and never actually go home.

Jenny's Corner Costa

A few days ago, one of the lovely regulars came and asked me a question I’m pretty sure they’ve been dying to ask for months. ‘Why are you always writing, don’t you ever get a day off?’

It’s a good question. One my husband asks pointedly every now and then.

The answer is simple- well ‘simple’ is probably pushing it!

I need to write.

Don’t confuse this with being the same as ‘I want to write.’ That is a different thing altogether.

Coffee blog- The Coffee Den Pyle

Once upon a time I did want to write. I dreamt of completed stories, and maybe one day having a book all of my own.

These days it’s an addiction. An unstoppable, nail biting, obsession of disappointment and triumph. A roller coaster I can’t imagine ever getting off.

I used to fit my writing around my job and my life, now it is very much the other way around. As a consequence of course I get massive hits of guilt. So, rather than giving my job less time, I give it more; as I live in fear of letting my employers down, and am frequently to be found processing spreadsheets late into the night.

Then comes the real guilt- when you find yourself only half listening to what your child has been up to at school because you have just thought of a killer line for your latest book and if you don’t write it down NOW, you’ll actually explode!

My children (who luckily for me are both very creative in their own right, and totally get the feeling of absorption which producing something unique brings), are wonderful. Whenever I apologise to them for being only half as attentive a parent as I should be, they tell me off for being daft. Telling me they are just fine thank you very much- and could they have a life to karate, their friend’s house, the cafe now please…

Sometimes I look around at my undusted house, with the fluff on the carpet sometimes reaching epidemic proportions, and feel very sorry for my husband. He didn’t sign up for this. When we met and married almost 18 years ago, I was almost the complete opposite of who I am now. My home was cleaned and scrubbed to within an inch of its life. Dust was captured long before it had the chance to settle, and it was a rare day when there wasn’t a fresh cake baking in the over. And somehow, alongside all this, I had 3 part time jobs and was doing a PhD.

My husband must miss that multitalented woman, domestic goddess, and fellow academic. Sometimes I think he deserves a medal for putting up with me, because- to get back to the point of this blog- I really do only have a one week off a year for a holiday, along with a few random days off at Christmas and Easter each year. Not because I have a maverick boss yelling at me, not because I am forced to- but because I can’t stop. I just can’t.

Okay, there are lots of deadlines to deal with, and there are times when I am genuinely very much up against time- but often I have to work because- well, I have to work! If I don’t I’m a ratty, fidgety, grumpy person who is in serious danger of losing my usually permanent smile.

And why wouldn’t I smile all the time- I am addicted to the best job in the world!!

So be warned anyone out here who hopes to write a book some day. You too could also be kidnapped by the world of the imagination- a world that is so much safer than the real one, because you are always in charge. You get to pick the words that shape the lives of everyone you invent- a powerful narcotic indeed…. (Oh- and if you do want to risk it and write-make sure you are married to a very very understanding husband or wife!!!)

Happy reading,

Jenny xx

Guest Blog from Nell Peters: Time Flies…

By Jenny Kane

On August 31, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, crime, Fiction

Amazingly it’s the end of the month again- and so the lovely Nell Peters is here. Today she is reflecting on the speed of time- or is possibly looking for an excuse to complain about Christmas… (Don’t miss exclusive story extract at the very end)

Over to you Nell…

A PW

Hello there – doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? And even if you’re not, of course.

It’s once again the last day of the month, and also the OH’s birthday – but I won’t bother wishing him many happies on here, because he doesn’t ‘do’ social media. Probably just as well, as I’d certainly have to mind my Ps and Qs, and a few X, Y and Zs as well. I had a quick look to see who else shares his birthday on 31/8 – there were a dozen or so, but since I’ve never heard of any of them, I won’t bother to list them.

I had heard of a few people who died on this day, though – David Frost, Charles Baudelaire and John Bunyan, to name just three – plus this is the nineteenth anniversary of the death of Diana, Princess of Wales in Paris. I remember it was a Sunday and we’d planned a day at the beach to indulge the OH (I so hate sand!) with the younger two boys. En route, I mentioned the accident to #3 son, who was eight at the time and told him Diana had been killed in a car accident. He then uttered the immortal words, ‘What, Dodo as well?’ Even now, aged twenty-seven and with an enviable job that often requires him to fly around the world, he can be daft as a bog brush. He takes after me, sadly.

We live near Sandringham in Norfolk and in 1997 #3 & 4 sons were pupils at a (now closed) prep school, previously attended by Diana and her younger brother Charles, when they lived on the estate pre-Althorp. The uniforms cost a small fortune – including ghastly cherry-red blazers trimmed with gold, and caps, with duffle coats for winter in the same shade, all of which could probably be easily spotted from outer space. The school was in the grounds of a large house, with classrooms that were basically glorified sheds and freezing cold for the majority of the school year.

Yount Annie

The owners – Mrs P, widow of the school founder and her long-in-the-tooth son, neither of whom were qualified teachers – made a big thing about the Diana connection, but rarely mentioned her little brother, if ever. Perhaps he’d been caught doing something unseemly with snails or spiders during his time there – who knows? Or maybe he got his evil revenge on the ancestors of the horrid, smelly dogs that were allowed to roam free and bite pupils – one made quite an impression on the bottom of a certain ex-racing driver’s daughter, I seem to remember. Big trouble – Mrs ex-racing driver is a rather large woman and not someone to mess with (in the unlikely event you are reading this and recognise that description – just kidding!) She went through more nannies during the time I knew her than I had hot dinners.

Mrs P herself was an interesting psychological study – a strange mix of sycophant, narcissist and snob with skyscraper-sized delusions of grandeur, who looked down upon us fee-paying parents, while not being too proud to deposit our hefty cheques at the speed of light. I was on the parents’ committee and when she deigned to attend our meetings, there was a prize for any member who could get her tipsy enough to provide the free cabaret, slagging off unsuspecting parents who had a) not paid their fees on time or b) failed to show due deference to the old dear. And the hair! It was sculpted into a style that hadn’t been in vogue since 1940, with never a strand out of place (courtesy copious amounts of spray of concrete consistency, I suspect) even in the summer, when she drove an ancient sports car around town, top down, scaring other old ladies.

Last month, I made unsubtle reference to my birthday in the middle of July – when the calendar hits there, I always have the sinking feeling that we are past the longest day and so over half-way through the year. However, the summer hols are looming and there should still be many more long hot sunny days ahead (ever the optimist!) 31^st August, on the other hand, hails the return to school for the autumn term and that slippery slope into cold weather, accompanied by the commercial gallop toward Christmas. No doubt as soon as the first assembly bell clangs, supermarkets will clear their shelves of non-essentials like food and fill them with Christmas tat. After all, they were advertising their Back to School wares before the children even broke up – and Easter eggs tend to appear as if by magic on 26^th December.

Just lately, I’ve seen a lot of cover reveals for other authors’ Christmas novels on social media, plus the occasional post declaring it’s only xxx days to go before it’s time to incinerate the turkey once more. However – bearing in mind I write these ramblings well in advance, so that Jenny can correct my spelling mistakes and strike her red crayon through the bad language before I land upon her illustrious blog – I was genuinely shocked today when someone from ooop north told me that a garden centre in Harrogate is busily constructing their Christmas grotto! He tells me it’s extremely large and so will be a magnificently naff experience – that’s surely the best oxymoron of the week? J This on line conversation sparked comment from someone else, who assured us that Selfridges’ floor dedicated to all things Noel, has been up and running for a while. Seriously? I’ve heard the old adage ‘Shop early for Christmas,’ (no doubt perpetuated by retailers eager to clear their stock at full price, thus negating the possibility of making a loss in the January sales) but there’s early and there’s a flippin sparrow’s fart … And unless you live in the southern hemisphere, there is surely something not quite right about going tinsel shopping clad in scanty clothes, shades and flip-flops, smelling of sun tan lotion?

Bah Humbug

But, let he who is without sin cast the first rotten tomato. I have to confess I’ve already decided that our Christmas table colour scheme this year will incorporate the rather vulgar sparkly gold candles that someone gave me two or three years ago. I recently found them stashed at the back of a cupboard, whilst grovelling around for something else. Hideous they may be, but waste not, want not – and I do guiltily enjoy tacky every now and again, but don’t tell my mother!

Time I wasn’t here! A telepathic Happy Birthday! to the OH and anyone else who is clocking up yet another year today – and thanks again to Jen for having me!

Toodles.

By Any Other Name 2

As you are no doubt sick of hearing, Nell Peters writes crime novels for Accent Press. You can find By Any Other Name and Hostile Witness here:

www.mybook.to/BAON

www.mybook.to/hostilewitness

Hostile Witness 2

Other masterpieces lurk, gathering dust, on Amazon KDP – some are even worth a look.

Twitter: @paegon

Facebook: www.facebook.com/NellPetersAuthor/

Amazon author page: www.Author.to/NellPeters

***

Blurb for Hostile Witness

When her husband leaves her and their sons to shack up with a younger model, Callie Ashton thinks she’s hit rock bottom. She’s wrong. Already unemployed and struggling to hold everything together, Callie’s life goes into freefall when she stumbles across the murder of a neighbour. The killer soon becomes intent on despatching Callie too, wrongly assuming she can identify him. Despite her new man being the officer in charge of the investigation, Callie’s in great danger – and it soon becomes clear the murderer isn’t too worried whom he kills or maims in his quest to eliminate her. No one is safe and the killer seems to know her every movement. With no resolution in sight, Callie feels she has no choice but to take matters into her own hands…but at what cost to her safety – and sanity?

Hostile Witness cover

Opening of Hostile Witness

A military tattoo pounded somewhere behind her eye sockets and her entire body shook involuntarily, despite the heavy blanket wrapped around her shoulders. A mug of sickly sweet tea that had been forced upon her quivered in her grasp, slopping some of its contents onto the tiled floor to pool in a muddy, irregular oval like a Rorschach reject.

Leaning across the table, the tubby policewoman frowned. ‘You know, ma’am, finding a dead body is a terrible shock for anyone – you should drink some of that tea and you’ll feel loads better.’

She really didn’t see how anything could possibly make her feel ‘loads better’, ever again. ‘I’m trying,’ she lied, wishing the constable would waddle off and leave her alone.

Though the whole country was in the grip of a heatwave, she felt icy sweat trickle a course down her spine, seeping into the tight waistband of her jeans and down to her knickers. She was aware her nose was running, but she couldn’t have cared less.

‘Have you contacted Giles – Mr Symonds – yet?’ she asked, ‘He travels a lot and Dee says … said … he always forgets to turn on his phone … and the children – what about the children?’

‘That’s all in hand, ma’am, and someone from Family Liaison has gone to the school to break the news. Sarah and Tom, isn’t it?’

‘Thomas … he’s always called Thomas.’ The PC’s manner was brisk and – to her at least – irritating.

‘Right you are, then – don’t you go worrying about no one else, everything is under control.’

More tears flowed unchecked and she slopped more tea, ‘Poor Giles – he left for work this morning and everything was normal … now his wife is dead. Poor Giles … poor Sarah and Thomas …’ She knew she was rambling, teetering on the verge of losing control – and she just wanted to be left in peace.

The policewoman grabbed a battered box of tissues from the work surface and thrust it towards her, heavy features clenched into an ugly, no-nonsense gargoyle grimace. ‘But it can’t have been normal, can it, ma’am – not if Mrs Symonds was planning to top herself, just as soon as them kids left for school?’

She didn’t like the woman’s attitude, but when she closed her eyes to blot her out, all she could see were the deep gashes in Dee’s white wrists as they bobbed in bloodied water. Her stomach lurched ominously and she was afraid she might be sick again …

***

Once again, a massive thanks to Nell for such a great blog. I’m still chuckling.

Happy reading,

Jenny x

Guest Blog from Lucy V Hay – 3 HABITS OF EFFECTIVE BOOK REVIEWERS

By Jenny Kane

On August 19, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Contemporary Romantic Fiction, crime, Fiction, review, writing tips

Today I’m joined by my friend and Devon Writers business partner, Lucy V Hay – this is advice you can’t afford to ignore.

Over to you Lucy…

3 HABITS OF EFFECTIVE BOOK REVIEWERS

by @LucyVHayAuthor

1)They know what they like. I’m a big ‘grip lit’ fan – in other words, I’m most interested in female protagonists who are probably NOT police (or other related authoritative figures). I like mysteries, thrillers, unreliable narrators and characters who are not your ‘usual’, meaning I like diverse casts and I don’t feel have to necessarily ‘like’ characters to relate to their journeys. Plot-wise, I like strong concepts and prefer a fast pace with unexpected twists and turns. I favour psychological torment over actual graphic violence generally speaking. In terms of writing style, I like prose that’s lean, visual and sharp, almost literary.

That’s not to say I never read male protagonists, police procedurals or novels with torture and splatter in. I even read romance from time to time! But I favour ‘grip lit’ because ultimately I want to be entertained. Obvious, really!

effective book bloggers

BOOK REVIEWER TOP TIP: Know who you are, what you like and let people know – then you’re more likely to be approached by publishers, small presses and individual authors who have ARCs you would love to read.

2) They know their opinion is one of many. I don’t see the point in ‘hate reading’, so I always stop reading if I am not enjoying a book. My time is limited as a busy working Mum of three, why would I waste it on something I am not enjoying? What’s more, I never review books I haven’t finished. But most importantly, I recognise that just because I don’t like a book, doesn’t mean someone else won’t LOVE it! As book reviewers, we have to realise our opinion is just one of many.

BOOK REVIEWER TOP TIP: If you’re not enjoying a book, why not pass the baton on to another reader? You could always say to the ARC giver, ‘this wasn’t for me, but I think X would love it’.

3) They have a strategy. I keep a record of the books I’m reading and have read via my Goodreads page, plus I share my top crimefiction picks based around a theme on my ‘Best of 3’ feature on my blog. I also try and post to my blog at least twice a week, plus five or six times in Facebook groups and Twitter chats about reading and writing. In other words, in any given week, my fellow readers should hear approximately ten times from me.

But it’s NOT all about me and what *I* like: I also invite fellow crime fiction fans to submit THEIR ‘Best of 3’ picks to my blog, plus I also invite authors and screenwriters to take part in an interview feature called Criminally Good. Once a month, I’ll do an author chat on my FB page, CRIME, INK too

BOOK REVIEWER TOP TIP: Decide in advance how you will build up your platform. And try and stick to the 80/20 rule – if you’re talking about yourself and your site 20% of the time, make sure you’re taking about others (and their books or picks!) 80% of the time!

Good luck out there!

***

Lucy Hay

BIO: @LucyVHayAuthor is currently writing her first psychological thriller novel. She is also a script editor for movies and has written the nonfiction book, Writing & Selling Thriller Screenplays (Kamera Books). Join The Criminally Good Book Club to sign up for news, offers and giveaways.

***

Many thanks Lucy.

Jenny x

A Summer Wedding: Romancing Robin Hood

By Jenny Kane

On August 5, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, Contemporary Romantic Fiction, crime, Fiction, Historical fiction, Romance

I’m away on my holidays this week, and so I thought I’d leave you with a little something to read. What better for the summer, than a wedding?

RRH- new 2015

Romancing Robin Hood is a contemporary romance is based on the life of Dr Grace Harper, a medieval history lecturer with a major Robin Hood obsession. So much so, that instead of writing a textbook on medieval life, Grace is secretly writing a novella about a fourteenth century girl called Mathilda, who gets mixed up with a real outlaw family of the day, the Folvilles. (Which you can also read within my novel!)

The problem is that Grace is so embroiled in her work and passion for outlaws, that real life is passing her by.

With her wedding approaching fast, Grace’s best friend Daisy can’t help wishing a similar happiness to her own for her Robin Hood loving friend…

summer wedding

Extract

…Daisy hadn’t grown up picturing herself floating down the aisle in an over-sequinned ivory frock, nor as a doting parent, looking after triplets and walking a black Labrador. So when, on an out-of-hours trip to the local vet’s surgery she’d met Marcus and discovered that love at first sight wasn’t a myth, it had knocked her for six.

She’d been on a late-night emergency dash to the surgery with an owl a neighbour had found injured in the road. Its wing had required a splint, and it was too big a job for only one pair of hands. Daisy had been more than a bit surprised when the locum vet had stirred some long-suppressed feeling of interest in her, and even more amazed when that feeling had been reciprocated.

It was all luck, sheer luck. Daisy had always believed that anyone meeting anybody was down to two people meeting at exactly the right place, at exactly the right time, while both feeling precisely the right amount of chemistry. The fact that any couples existed at all seemed to Daisy to be one of the greatest miracles of humanity.

She pictured Grace, tucked away in her mad little office only living in the twenty-first century on a part-time basis. Daisy had long since got used to the fact that her closest friend’s mind was more often than not placed firmly in the 1300s. Daisy wished Grace would finish her book. It had become such a part of her. Such an exclusive aim that nothing else seemed to matter very much. Even the job she used to love seemed to be a burden to her now, and Daisy sensed that Grace was beginning to resent the hours it took her away from her life’s work. Maybe if she could get her book over with – get it out of her system – then Grace would stop living in the wrong timeframe.

Daisy knew Grace appreciated that she never advised her to find a bloke, settle down, and live ‘happily ever after,’ and she was equally grateful Grace had never once suggested anything similar to her. Now she had Marcus, however, Daisy had begun to want the same contentment for her friend, and had to bite her tongue whenever they spoke on the phone; something that happened less and less these days.

Grace’s emails were getting shorter too. The long paragraphs detailing the woes of teaching students with an ever-decreasing intelligence had blunted down to, ‘You ok? I’m good. Writing sparse. See you soon. Bye G x’

The book. That in itself was a problem. Grace’s publishers and colleagues, Daisy knew, were expecting an academic tome. A textbook for future medievalists to ponder over in the university libraries of the world. And, in time, that was exactly what they were going to get, but not yet, for Grace had confided to Daisy that this wasn’t the only thing she was working on, and her textbook was coming a poor third place to work and the other book she couldn’t seem to stop herself from writing.

‘Why,’ Grace had forcefully expounded on their last meeting, ‘should I slog my guts out writing a book only a handful of bored students and obsessive freaks like myself will ever pick up, let alone read?’

As a result, Grace was writing a novel, ‘A semi-factual novel,’ she’d said, ‘a story which will tell any student what they need to know about the Folville family and their criminal activities – which bear a tremendous resemblance to the stories of a certain famous literary outlaw! – and hopefully promote interest in the subject for those who aren’t that into history without boring them to death.’

It sounded like a good idea to Daisy, but she also knew, as Grace did, that it was precisely the sort of book academics frowned upon, and she was worried about Grace’s determination to finish it. Daisy thought it would be more sensible to concentrate on one manuscript at a time, and get the dry epic that everyone was expecting out of the way first. Perhaps it would have been completed by now if Grace could focus on one project at a time, rather than it currently being a year in the preparation without a final result in sight. Daisy suspected Grace’s boss had no idea what she was really up to. After all, she was using the same lifetime of research for both manuscripts. She also had an underlying suspicion that subconsciously Grace didn’t want to finish either the textbook or the novel; that her friend was afraid to finish them. After all, what would she fill her hours with once they were done?

Daisy’s mobile began to play a tinny version of Nellie the Elephant. She hastily plopped a small black guinea pig, which she’d temporarily called Charcoal, into a run with his numerous friends, and fished her phone from her dungarees pocket.

‘Hi, Marcus.’

‘Hi honey, you OK?’

‘Just delivering the tribe to their outside quarters, then I’m off to face the horror that is dress shopping.’

Her future husband laughed, ‘You’ll be fine. You’re just a bit rusty, that’s all.’

‘Rusty! I haven’t owned a dress since I went to parties as a small child. Thirty-odd years ago!’

‘I don’t understand why you don’t go with Grace at the weekend. It would be easier together wouldn’t it?’

Daisy sighed, ‘I’d love to go with her, but I’ll never get her away from her work more than once this month, and I’ve yet to arrange a date for her to buy a bridesmaid outfit.’

‘Well, good luck, babe. I’m off to rob some bulls of their manhood.’

Daisy giggled, ‘Have fun. Oh, why did you call by the way?’

‘Just wanted to hear your voice, nothing else.’

‘Oh cute – ta.’

‘Idiot! Enjoy shopping.’

As she clicked her battered blue mobile shut and slid it back into her working clothes, Daisy thought of Grace again. Perhaps she should accidentally invite loads of single men to the wedding to tempt her friend with. The trouble was, unless they wore Lincoln Green, and carried a bow and quiver of arrows, Daisy very much doubted whether Grace would even notice they were there…

RH- RoS 2

Blurb

Dr Grace Harper has loved the stories of Robin Hood ever since she first saw them on TV as a girl. Now, with her fortieth birthday just around the corner, she’s a successful academic in Medieval History, with a tenured position at a top university.

But Grace is in a bit of a rut. She’s supposed to be writing a textbook on a real-life medieval gang of high-class criminals – the Folvilles – but she keeps being drawn into the world of the novel she’s secretly writing – a novel which entwines the Folvilles with her long-time love of Robin Hood – and a feisty young girl named Mathilda, who is the key to a medieval mystery…

Meanwhile, Grace’s best friend Daisy – who’s as keen on animals as Grace is on the Merry Men – is unexpectedly getting married, and a reluctant Grace is press-ganged into being her bridesmaid. As Grace sees Daisy’s new-found happiness, she starts to re-evaluate her own life. Is her devotion to a man who may or may not have lived hundreds of years ago really a substitute for a real-life hero of her own? It doesn’t get any easier when she meets Dr Robert Franks – a rival academic who Grace is determined to dislike but finds herself being increasingly drawn to…

Buy Links – All e-formats available (Paperback to follow asap)

Amazon UK- http://www.amazon.co.uk/Romancing-Robin-Hood-Jenny-Kane-ebook/dp/B00M4838S2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1407428558&sr=8-1&keywords=romancing+robin+hood

Amazon.com- http://www.amazon.co.uk/Romancing-Robin-Hood-Jenny-Kane-ebook/dp/B00M4838S2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1407428558&sr=8-1&keywords=romancing+robin+hood

***

Happy reading,

Jenny x

Guest Post from Nell Peters: Birthday Sharing

By Jenny Kane

On July 31, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, crime, Fiction

Somehow we’ve reached the end of another month, so I’m handing over my site to the lovely Anne Polhill Walton- aka crime writer- Nell Peters. Once again Nell has provided a brilliant blog- although a certain Mr Connery may not think so…you’ll see what I mean!

I urge you my friends, to read right to the bottom of the blog today. Life is full of twists of fate, some kind, some not so kind…

Birthday cake

Thank you, Jenny – and hello again, everyone J

As I mentioned in my last post here, Jenny and I celebrate our birthdays in July – both on the 13^th in fact. Unlucky for some – most especially me, as I was born on a Friday, according to my mother … which explains a lot. So, too late now for you to shower us with impressive gifts this year, but most definitely a red-letter date in your 2017 diary. We share our big day with Sir Patrick Stewart, who boldly went – although not being a fan of Star Trek, Captain Kirk was at the helm last time I saw the programme. Then there’s Ian Hislop of Private Eye, who has also on occasion boldly gone, but in his case into print, closely followed by a court appearance, defending a libel case. Harrison Ford joins the line-up too, he of Han Solo and Indiana Jones fame. I’ve never seen Star Wars – do I sense a theme here, as in I seem to avoid anything with ‘star’ in the title? I do quite like Starbucks however, but only for tea as I don’t drink coffee (just don’t tell coffee addict Jenny!)

With four sons, I was unable to avoid all the Indiana Jones films – did I really read recently they are making another? Seriously? Harrison Ford is well into his seventies and his on-screen father, Sean Connery, is more than ten years older than that! They’ll surely be cavorting around, wronging rights from their bath chairs? Probably pushed around by scantily-clad beauties, though, as Hollywood OAPs are somewhat more attractive than the common or garden variety – they perhaps don’t need their Winter Fuel Allowance either, in sunny California.

There is a Connery connection to Jenny – not Sean, but his nipper Jason (he of the long, flowing locks), who played the eponymous role in the last of the Robin of Sherwood TV series many years ago. Where does the Jenny link come in, I hear you ask – go on, please ask, or I’ll have to think of something else to prattle on about (imagine a sad, pleading face here – oh, and violins playing). Well, Jen has had a bit of a thing about Robin Hood since she was a wee gel – one of her books is even entitled Romancing Robin Hood (and a sequel is brewing) – you don’t get much more dedicated than that. After a gap of thirty years, surviving members of the original TV cast have reprised their roles in The Knights of the Apocalypse – an audio drama crowdfunded by fans. We could speculate that they went for an audio production because there simply wouldn’t be enough Polyfilla available for the cast to appear recognisably on screen, but that would be cruel. I have seen a pic of Jason C, however – gravity has taken effect with a vengeance and his only hair now is sprouting from his chin. Whatever … while our ardent groupie Madam Kane managed to blag a ticket and hobnob with the stars at the premier performance (I’ve seen those pics too!), for me the best thing is that the production company is called Spiteful Puppet – genius name!

I digress: our communal birthday was on a Wednesday this year, but both Jen and I had the main event the weekend before – in my case, a family invasion for a BBQ on the Sunday. #4 son arrived early with his family, acting quite strangely (not wholly unusual), and holding a large cardboard box. When I asked what was in said box, he said he’d brought a load of crisps along because it’s not something we ever buy (true) and guests might just fancy a scrunch or two. He then sat me down and told me to immediately open the gift he shoved under my nose – a large bag of Pavlova the chicken’s favourite bird seed was revealed. Card next; on the left hand side were the questions ‘Do you know who Svetlana Alexievich is?’ and ‘What is she famous for?’

I coaxed the long-dormant brain cell into life and gave him my answers, before being dragged outside (in my slippers! Tsk!) to inspect the crisp box … even I (Miss Hopelessly Naive 1802) was beginning to smell a rat by then. When the box was opened and tipped up gently on the grass, not a rat but a chicken emerged! A sister/playmate for Pavlova! Double trouble! And she had already been named Svetlana after the Nobel Lit Prize winner by #4 (maybe the school fees weren’t 100% wasted, after all?)

Bluebell

Svet is a magnificent Bluebell hen – her plumage has a definite blue hue in a certain light, and she was sixteen weeks old when she moved in. She is bigger than Pav with feet large enough to support a strapping 25 lb turkey, perhaps even a Pterodactyl. #4 lives more rurally than us and he chose Svet from a farm local to him, where numerous birds were housed in a large pen with a sandy floor. She was picked up on BBQ day and transported to her slightly more glamorous life – a third of an acre with grass underfoot – on the back seat, just as carefully strapped in as the GDs.

chicken Pavlova was doing one of her nesting stints when Svetlana arrived and so they didn’t meet until the next morning, when Pav came to feed – she was a little put out, but feathers didn’t actually fly and since then, while not yet bosom (or chicken breast) buddies, peace has been declared and there is no battle of the beaks to rule the roost. They really couldn’t be more different in personality (yes, they do have personalities!) – while Pav is quite skittish and aloof, rather like a cat who tolerates our presence as long as we know our place and keep her well fed, Svet is really laid back and friendly and follows us around like an adoring puppy. She doesn’t even mind the Grands chasing her and also talks incessantly (which the old chick on the block has never done, apart from very loud crowing when she thinks it’s chow time) making sort of mewling noises, rather like a Moomin with feathers.

Finally, I have reached the conclusion that the OH has been around my warped sense of humour for way too long and has lost his immunity. When no one was looking, he retrieved one of those Nando’s chicken on a stick things (liberated from the restaurant years ago by one of the boys) and stuck it in the grass by the communal food receptacle. Really!

Nandos Toodles! NP

***

PS-

OK, that was my original post for Jenny, written a couple of weeks in advance.

I’m so very sad to report that both Pavlova and Svetlana have since been killed – most likely suspect a cat new to the neighbourhood, that I’ve spotted in the garden at all hours of the day and night.

I know this is a first world problem – that there is dreadful carnage and unimaginable human suffering globally, to which the loss of two spoiled chickens cannot possibly compare, but I do so miss them. For instance, there is no one to greet me when I take an early morning stroll in the garden – they’d spot me a mile off and speed toward me with their silly run-trot, Pavlova making the most unholy din. Of course, I realise they were after food and not my scintillating conversation, but they always made me smile. And Svetlana, being a cheeky young upstart, had taken to sitting on the back door mat if the door was open, a few yards away from me when I was using my lap top at the table – just hanging out.

Goodbye, and thank you, little feathered friends. XX

***

Many many thanks fro such a great blog Nell. I shall certainly miss hearing about your chicken friend’s adventures. Pavlova in particular had become a very definite character in her own right. Thank you for sharing so much of her mischief with us on this blog. Hugs. Jenny xxx

(I can’t begin to imagine what the very lovely Mr C junior is thinking if he is reading this right now!!)

***

Bio

Nell Peters writes psychological crime novels and is published by Accent Press. Her next protagonist is going to be a chicken.

By Any toher name bus

mybook.to/BAON

Hostile witness bus

mybook.to/hostilewitness

Interview with Julie-Ann Corrigan: Falling Suns

By Jenny Kane

On July 18, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, crime, Interview

It’s interview time on my blog today. I’m delighted to welcome Julie Ann Corrigan over for coffee and cake, and to talk about her brand new book, Falling Suns.

coffee and cake

What inspired you to write your book?

I was inspired initially by the overwhelming and horrible thought of something terrible happening to my child and how I would cope, especially if the perpetrator of the crime ended up being someone known to the family. Once I had decided whom the perpetrator would be in my fictional story I then became inspired to explore both mental illness and institutional corruption.

Do you model any of your characters after people you know? If so, do these people see themselves in your characters?

There are some aspects of Rachel that I do recognise in myself, but unsure what that says about me!

When I began writing Falling Suns, and as I began to draw the characters, I think that more than taking the templates from one individual character, I drew characteristics from a number of people I’ve come across in my life. For example, Michael Hemmings is very much a mixture of patients I did come into contact with as a student physiotherapist working within mental health; although I have to add here, I never met one as psychotic as Hemmings, thank goodness!

Mrs Xú is very much like a few Chinese alternative therapists I have met. Stanley resembles a drama teacher who once taught me, but he is also like someone else I once knew ..
Falling Suns Final

Which Point of View do you prefer to write in and why?

I think my natural point-of-view is first person and past tense. However, recently (but not in Falling Suns) I have started experimenting with present tense. Interestingly, when I first started writing I always wrote in third person and past tense.

What I’ve learnt is that once you start writing the story whether in a novel or short work, the storyline and tone will often dictate which tense and point-of-view to use.

Do you prefer to plot your story or just go with the flow?

I plot the beginning, middle and end, and then I fill in the rest! Generally I do go with the flow, but I do have four or five plot points that I use to build my story around. And as I write, often the plot might change, or I will add aspects that weren’t apparent to me when I first began the story.

faalling suns pre

If you were stranded on a desert island with three other people, fictional or real, who would they be and why?

The Dalai Lama. He has such a lovely open face and talks such sense.

Usain Bolt. So I could admire his body all day!

Adele. She comes across as so much fun, so down-to-earth. And I will never tire of listening to her voice and lyrics.

I feel I should have a writer on this list. DM Thomas. The White Hotel is my favourite book of all time and I once spoke with him via email, and I know he would never bore me.

***

Falling Suns – Extract

Liam and I found ourselves outside the court building, greeted by a muddy sky that was still visible in the wispy fog of the late afternoon. It had rained continuously for the last forty-eight hours, but as we caught sight of the insatiable media the downpour was the least of our problems.

I pulled my wool beret over courtroom warm ears and looked down towards the slippery wet ground. Our barrister had told us to say nothing, which was physically easy, as I felt I would never speak again. For the past seven weeks the dry atmosphere of the courtroom had robbed me of a proper voice, as Hemmings’ act had robbed me of a proper life. Tom Gillespie caught Liam’s arm, whispering things that I didn’t even try to catch. My existence seemed to be disappearing into a void; the small bit of life that Hemmings had left for me, plucked away during the trial.

I loitered in the entrance of the court building, thinking that I would smell Joe. I did not. A coolness ran through me, a purl of motion in between the crevices of my spine.

Joe wasn’t with me.

As we left, Tom squeezed my arm lightly but didn’t attempt to give me a familiar kiss on the cheek. Liam and I had slowed down his investigation by holding back information about Joe’s state of mind the day he had run, and in so doing we had compromised our relationship with him. In my previous life, I’d been talking to Tom about going back to work. Once upon a time that thought had excited me.

Tom walked quickly to a waiting car. He slipped into the driver’s seat and glanced towards me, nodding slightly. He wanted to get away.

I felt a gentle jab in my back. It was Jonathan. I’d hardly spoken to him throughout the trial. As I turned towards him, so did Liam, his face sullen.

‘You need to get away from here as quickly as possible.’ Jonathan smiled thinly. ‘Can’t take away the nature of the vulture. I should know.’

‘We’re fine, Jonathan. Rachel knows how to handle this stuff,’ Liam said.

‘Does she, Liam?’ Jonathan said quietly.

Very obviously Liam elbowed past him, only to move a few inches nearer to the street.

‘We’re just about to leave, Jonathan,’ I said. ‘Are you free to come over? I’ve hardly seen you …’ I didn’t care what Liam thought. Not anymore.

At that moment in my peripheral vision I caught sight of my dad and mother leaving too. Dad saw me and moved his head towards the car park, indicating that he’d accompany Margaret to the car and then return. I couldn’t face her, and the silent accusation that this was all my fault.

Joe’s murder was somehow my fault.

I looked at Jonathan. ‘Come over, please?’ To Liam I said: ‘Can we wait for Dad?’

‘The place is crawling with press.’ Liam said. ‘We need 41

to go.’ He cast his eyes around. ‘Too late.’ Already journalists surrounded us. I recognised a few from the local papers, the nationals, too. Flashes and tussling ensued as our barrister made his way forward. Sean Skerrit, QC for the Crown Prosecution Service was older than he looked, something that I think went against him in court. I’d always felt the jury resented a young prosecution, especially if the jury was mainly young, which this one had been.

Sean directed his speech towards Liam and I felt invisible, useless, but too tired to complain. ‘I intend to give a statement.’ Sean said to Liam. ‘You and Rachel go home. I’ll call later. Better I do this alone.’

‘This means a life sentence?’ I asked Sean, hope in my voice.

He grimaced. ‘A do-good mental health tribunal could well decide to let him out within five years, if he plays the game.’ He caught my eye. ‘But hopefully that won’t be the case.’

‘But it could be the case … couldn’t it?’

‘I hope not, Rachel,’ Sean said, with leaden heaviness in his voice. I’d got the distinct impression that Sean Skerrit QC didn’t like to lose, and had taken Hemmings’ sentence as a direct affront to his professional agility.

Did I think of revenge then? Deep inside I think I did.

Sean ran slender and well-manicured fingers through his mane. Not one grey hair in his boot-polish black hair. He turned slightly to accommodate a photographer, and looking at the lens said to me: ‘We’ll talk later.’

‘I’ll come over, Rachel,’ Jonathan said, ‘just for a short time. I have to be back in London.’ He was already moving away.

‘Good,’ I said to Jonathan’s back.

My dad had made his way over. He wavered and I recognised the vacillation with which I’d grown up. I guessed my mother wanted to talk to me, but I had no intention of going to my childhood home today to argue with her. Not today.

‘Your mum wants to talk to you,’ Dad said. I sighed. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow. I promise, I will.’ ‘She’s asked me to bring her over to yours … now.

She’s waiting in the car.’ He pulled at the sleeve of his jacket.

‘Charlotte’s made food, Alan. Both of you come and eat at ours,’ Liam said to Dad, avoiding looking at me, knowing there was no way I’d want my mother anywhere near me. He was functioning on automatic, something he’d seemed to be doing since Joe had gone. He felt as guilty as me, sometimes I thought more so. We still hadn’t talked about the affair, not properly, not directly. Although Liam was aware I knew something.

I watched my father. A patient man, a kind man. How could he love my mother? How could anyone love my mother? Joe hadn’t loved her. But he had tried.

‘We’ll drive over now,’ my dad said. He turned to return to his wife.

Liam pushed me gently into our waiting car. A PC whom I recognised sat ready in the driving seat. From the backseat, I saw his forced and sad smile in his rear-view mirror. The pity again.

We drove southwards towards home, passing the local park on the way. It had been built around the time Joe had been born, overlooking the main road, on elevated ground. The council’s thinking: where the kids could be seen.

Liam broke the short silence. ‘I’d rather Jonathan Waters didn’t turn up today.’

‘He’s my friend.’ I stared through the window. ‘You can’t have an opinion on this. He’s been good to me.’

Liam didn’t answer.

***

Links

Website: www.jacorrigan.com

Twitter: @julieannwriter https://twitter.com/julieannwriter

Author Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/jacorrigan/

Buying links:

Amazon

https://www.waterstones.com/book/falling-suns/julie-ann-corrigan/j-a-corrigan/9781786152497

https://bookshop.theguardian.com/catalog/product/view/id/414323/

http://www.whsmith.co.uk/products/falling-suns/9781786152497

Bio

JA Corrigan lives in Berkshire and shares her life with a husband, one teenage daughter and a very cute cockapoo. When not writing she is to be found mooching in the garden during the summer and often in the mini gym at the bottom of that garden in winter-time.

***

Many thanks Julie- great interview,

Happy reading,

Jenny x

Guest Post from Jackie Buxton: Glass Houses

By Jenny Kane

On July 15, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, crime, Fiction

I’m delighted to welcome Jackie Buxton to my blog today. Jackie is currently celebrating the launch of her brand new novel, Glass Houses, and is sharing some of the background- and a juicy extract- with us today.

Over to you Jackie…

BLURB

‘When she sent that text, all our lives changed for ever…’ 51 year old Tori Williams’ life implodes when she sends a text while driving on the M62 motorway and allegedly causes the horrific crash in which three people die. Public and press are baying for her blood, but Tori is no wallflower and refuses to buckle under their pressure or be a pariah in society. Instead, she sets about saving the nation. But can she save Etta, the woman who saved her life? Or will Etta’s secret be her downfall? This incredibly topical and contemporary morality tale appeals across generations and will find favour with fans of authors such as Liane Moriarty, Marian Keyes and Kathryn Croft.

Glass Houses COVER

BLOG POST

Many years ago, the picture of a car crash, with a woman slumped over the steering wheel, and a stranger holding her hand until the emergency services arrived, pressed itself into my brain so forcefully that I was worried I was having a premonition about a real life incident. I wasn’t, thankfully. Instead, it seemed the gods of book writing had sent me the idea for my novel: one with a guilty protagonist, who could be any one of us. As I started to plot Tori’s character, a driver who texts from the wheel and becomes Public Enemy Number One, I realised that two separate news items were really behind the car crash image.

The first was the face of Gary Hart, the driver of the Land Rover involved in the Selby rail crash in 2001. He’d had little sleep the night before, chosen to drive the next day, and fallen asleep at the wheel with the most tragic of consequences. It was a horrendous scene. 10 people died, 82 were seriously injured and Gary Hart survived.

He was public enemy number one.

But when I saw his face in the media, I kept thinking that his wasn’t the face of a killer, it was the face of someone who’d done something stupid, selfish perhaps, but not intentional. His life would also be changed forever. Maybe he didn’t need us to chastise him any more than he would chastise himself. It was easy to criticise him – he doesn’t come across well in front of the camera – and people did. But I couldn’t help thinking that I’d driven tired before. I’d been lucky. There was no perfect storm for me, I managed to get off the motorway before something catastrophic happened and we all lived to see another day. I wondered if Gary Hart was any more guilty than I was, just because the consequences of his actions were so very different.

The second news item was the film of the charismatic mother of a boy who’d been killed in the 7/7 London bombing in 2005. She stood on a box in a crowd and everybody listened. She wasn’t talking vengeance, hatred and justice, she was talking about forgiveness. I was struck by how much more powerful and effective this type of reaction was, than the undoubtedly human and more usual reaction of anger and revenge.

This shot me back to a childhood thought which has appeared and re-appeared all though my life. It’s the paradox of the human condition. How often do we hear people say, Oh, we all make mistakes,’ and, ‘Nobody’s perfect, we all have our foibles,’ and yet we see families feuding, colleagues resigning and neighbours not speaking because they are not able to forgive someone who didn’t behave ‘perfectly’. Sometimes this anger lasts a lifetime and beyond. As a child, and a rather idealistic adult, I couldn’t help feeling that the world would be a better place if we didn’t get quite so cross or, perhaps more importantly, we endeavoured to become ‘uncross’ as quickly as possible.

By the way, I’m not pretending I’m perfect. That’s the point, really.

I wanted to explore forgiveness, guilt and atonement and the image of the woman slumped over the wheel, with a stranger willing her to stay alive, gave me Tori and Etta and the framework to get started. I chose a text sent from the motorway to be Tori’s crime. I wanted it to be something that was a conscious act that most of us would find abhorrent, and yet if we looked closer, we might find we’d done similar ourselves. I wanted to play with this phenomenon that people can be guilty because it happened and not guilty because it didn’t. My dream for Glass Houses is that as well as being entertained by Tori and Etta’s stories, not to mention Tori’s antics as she clumsily tries to re-build her life and Etta’s ability to self-destruct, readers will be interested in this conundrum, too.

***

Extract: the beginning of the first chapter

THERE WAS BLOOD on the steering wheel. Etta stared at her fingers as they gripped the rim. She uncurled them, flexed them in and out, then turned over her hands to examine the grooves in her skin. She smiled – a surface wound. Just a surface wound. Her half-chewed nails had plunged into her palms.

She patted her face, her arms, her legs: everything was in place. Her neck was stiff but it moved. Her feet ached so she lifted one and carefully replaced it, then lifted the other. Nothing broken. She undid her seatbelt, leaned back against her seat and forced out a long, whistling sigh.

“Thank you,” she whispered, looking up as if to acknowledge the powers-that-be who’d looked after her.

She wrinkled her nose. Her eyes darted to the foot well where she saw her flask smashed into too many pieces to count, drowned in a puddle of milky coffee. She reached for her phone where it had fallen, narrowly missing the liquid, but she froze before she could lift it to her ear. Her engine had cut and the radio silenced but it was more than that. She placed the phone on her lap. The silence was too loud.

In the rear-view mirror she saw stationary vehicles. She held her breath, cast her eyes to the side, to the stream of cars travelling as if in slow motion in the other direction. Tentatively she turned back to the front. The smashed side window of the Jeep was only a few paces ahead of her.

Not again.

“M62, yes, eastbound.” She picked her way quickly over the mess of twisted metal and fragments of glass, covering her mouth against the stench of burning rubber. “Junction? I don’t—”

She dropped her phone, stared at the door to the Jeep which had come away in her hand. It was heavy. She let it fall and covered her ears as it smashed against the ground. She bent down to look inside the Jeep. Her body crumpled and she sank to her knees.

***

Bio

Jackie Buxton is a writer, editor and teacher of creative writing, living in Yorkshire with her husband and two teenage daughters. Jackie used her recent experience of an aggressive form of breast cancer to inform and dispel some myths about a cancer diagnosis via her popular blog: Agenthood and Submissionville. Her posts became the frame-work of self-help memoire, Tea & Chemo (Urbane Publications, November 2015) which receives heart-warming feedback, and has a five star rating from over 75 reviews. Jackie’s award-winning short stories can be found in three anthologies, as well as appearing regularly in Chase Magazine. When not writing or reading, over-seeing house and teens, Jackie can be found running, cycling or tripping up though the beautiful Yorkshire countryside.

Tea & Chemo cover

***

Links

Website: www.jackiebuxton.com

Blog: http://jackiebuxton.blogspot.co.uk

Glass Houses: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Glass-Houses-Jackie-Buxton/dp/1910692840/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Tea & Chemo: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tea-Chemo-Fighting-Cancer-Living/dp/1910692395/ref=pd_sim_14_2?ie=UTF8&dpID=51VarAHlbnL&dpSrc=sims&preST=_AC_UL160_SR104%2C160_&psc=1&refRID=40W7ZSYWXQPDFB32377Z

***

Many thanks for dropping by today Jackie. Good luck with your new novel.

Happy reading,

Jenny x

Birthday Blog: Sherwood in Dartmoor?

By Jenny Kane

On July 13, 2016

In Blog, crime, Fiction, Historical fiction, News, Romance

This time last year, I shared a birthday blog with you saying that for years I’ve intended to write a story based on the moors of Devon, and yet somehow time, and other work commitments, have never allowed it.

This year for an early birthday present, the lovely Dr K took me for a weekend away on Dartmoor. We weren’t there just to escape from our workaday lives however- I had a mission. I wanted to find a place that could- in my mind at least- double for fourteenth century Sherwood!

Don’t worry dear reader- my increasing age hasn’t addled my brain (well, not much). I am in the midst of writing an entirely medieval sequel to my popular timeslip novel, Romancing Robin Hood, and as it is one heck of a drive up to the midlands from Devon, I wanted to find somewhere more local to visit that would let me feel a little of the forest atmosphere.

RRH- new 2015

When I write I find it essential to experience the location about which I’m writing. Obviously, until they invent time machines, I can’t nip back and feel the medieval air myself- and I have been to Sherwood many times so I have memories to fall back on- but I wanted to stand in a woodland area where I could see nothing modern, hear nothing modern, and soak up the atmosphere.

Only a few minutes along a walk by the side of the Teign Valley, I found what I was looking for. Oak trees, spaced widely, but close enough to form cover. No modern edifices in sight. No buzzing from mobile phones. No planes flew sounds overhead. The air was right. The breeze was right. The scent in the air was right. In my minds eyes Robin Hood himself could have been hiding anywhere close by – or in this case the new outlaw – a less pleasant outlaw who, for now, shall remain nameless…

A wonderful walk later- and a rest by the thirteenth century Fingle bridge (more outlaws are hiding I’m sure), and many new ideas were brewing in my mind for the medieval mystery forming in my head. Mathilda (who you will remember from Romancing Robin Hood), is in for quite an adventure…

And talking of brewing- let’s all settle back with a cuppa-(coffee for me please)- and a nice nibble of birthday cupcake, and contemplate if I am going to kill anybody off- or not…

Happy reading,

Jenny x

Guest Post from Nell Peters: About 100 Years Ago…

By Jenny Kane

On June 30, 2016

In Blog, Contemporary fiction, crime, Fiction

I’m delighted to welcome back Nell Peters for her second ‘end of month’ guest blog of the year! This is a cracking (and I don’t just mean Pavlova’s eggs) blog post…

Over to you Nell…

Hi Jenny!

I’m afraid that Pavlova the chicken is on the naughty perch at the moment and can’t come out to play. All the attention and fan mail she received after last month’s blog post went straight to her comb and she’s behaving disgracefully. A real poultry diva, in fact. She’s been horribly mean to birds that she deems inferior, has been strutting her stuff like she owns the place and making such a noise, Tim Peake can probably hear her up in his space station. But worst of all, she’s taken to leaving very large deposits right outside the back door. Eeew! That’s it – I’m withdrawing the oxygen of publicity that she craves even more than her dried meal worms, and whether this is a permanent or temporary measure depends entirely upon her behaviour in the immediate future. She can put that in her beak and smoke it. Pavlova is in the hen house.

chicken

Now where was I?

Oh yes, I took a short break recently to meet up with an old friend. About a hundred years ago, I used to share a flat in Kew Gardens with someone I will refer to only as M, to protect the guilty. In case you were wondering, Kew Gardens is a place (now referred to as a village by those fortunate enough to be able to afford the zillion pound price tags of property there) in West London and not just the hallowed centre of horticultural excellence – ergo, we didn’t actually live in a potting shed. There was another girl too – Valerie, but M and I knew each other from ghastly temp jobs we had with British Gas and Valerie was a bit of an also-ran. I wonder whatever happened to her – she was something of a miserable cow (turned her nose up at the rot-gut sherry we used to drink by the bottle, I can’t imagine why) and totally lacked any sense of humour as I recall. Some sort of local government worker, I think, which could explain the comedic bypass.

On Friday evenings M and I used to frequent the local wine bar, run by a rather brassy dame in her forties (she seemed ancient to us then!) who had very amusing affectations, airs and graces, until she’d had one too many glasses – which she did frequently – then all hell let loose and dancing on the tables ensued. Not a pretty sight, as she was a rather large lady, who either didn’t believe in or chose not to invest in controlling underwear. Brassy wasn’t the only entertainment to be had chez Garfield’s – a guy used to sing and play acoustic guitar (both badly), expecting punters to buy him copious amounts of alcohol to keep his tonsils irrigated. It was actually worth buying him a glass or two for the bliss of silence during the (all too short) time it took him to neck the booze.

Kew is within a long stone’s throw of Richmond upon Thames, just two stops on the Tube – where we could have had a much wider choice of great venues to sup the vino, most with some form of decent live music, but there’s a lot to be said for being a short walk from home when the time comes to stagger out the door of a hostelry, especially in Winter. Besides, I always suspected that M used to fancy the singer and that terribly attractive aggressive snarl he shared, if nobody applauded his questionable vocal efforts.

Kew Gardens

I was at the flat for only a short time before I got a proper job and moved in not a million miles away with the OH. Valerie and M let my vacant room to a rather dishy Australian guy – and were both bitterly disappointed when they found out he was gay. Unfortunately, he repaid their hospitality by hightailing it back to Oz less than three months later – perhaps he suddenly remembered where he’d left his didgeridoo.

M’s life and mine took very different directions; over the years, I produced a few sprogs and we moved the family to a falling-down house in Norfolk. M visited as frequently as she could and, child duties permitting, I went to see her for some very welcome R&R. Wine was drunk. In abundance. She neither married nor had children – perhaps being the oldest of six had put her off – and eventually moved back to Scotland, from whence she hailed. The visits in both directions became less frequent because of the sheer distance involved and the responsibilities that life throws at us – it didn’t help that the OH would spend long periods working overseas, leaving me in sole charge of four smelly boys.

But children grow more independent with age and gradually they were no longer tied to my apron strings, so a new period evolved in the social lives of M and me. For several years, we have been meeting up intermittently in a variety of UK locations (let’s hear it for bargain air fares and cheap deals on train fares!) – for instance, Edinburgh, Dublin and Newcastle, the latter where we took in the most excruciating ‘Emperor’s New Clothes’ art exhibition (for want of a better description!) at the Baltic Centre. Well I say ‘took in’, but M stomped off in her size eight Doc Martens after about ten seconds – mumbling obscenities – to stick needles in her eyes. But was it art? Actually, no. A bit of a turkey is the kindest description I can manage – but I suppose you have to admire the exhibitor’s nerve. Plus, it was a few years ago now and I can still recall its sheer ghastliness in some detail (I didn’t have M’s nerve to exit, stage left, in a flurry of outrage at the flagrant waste of tax payers’ moolah, and persevered) so it did make an impression of sorts.

We met again most recently in Cambridge – I am now granny to six and M has a huge number of nephews, plus just one niece, so two old ladies sitting in deckchairs, to paraphrase Morecambe and Wise. J She took (very!) early retirement and is travelling a lot, so I was lucky she could fit me in! In all likelihood we will never again Run the World with Bob Geldof (though I’m not sure that he actually ran the first time!), or go on severely bracing hikes here, there and everywhere – or indeed puff, pant and wheeze our way to the top of Arthur’s Seat. That always sounds faintly rude, somehow. I did draw the line, though, at accompanying M to a Wham concert – she bought herself the most awful bright blue synthetic cap thing with ‘George’ plastered all over it, and actually wore it there and back on public transport!

Our main exercise now when we are face to face is talking, catching up generally – and, of course, drinking wine, though not so much as we used to as we’re older and so much wiser. Yeah right!

Just to prove what a wino I am (it was M’s fault – she led me astray), even my two crime novels published by Accent Press are drawn to the bottle.

Nell Peters books

Hostile Witness can be found at mybook.to/hostilewitness and

By Any Other Name is at mybook.to/BAON

See you next month for some more drivel? By the end of July, both Jenny and I will have celebrated our birthdays – actually on the same day, although I suspect she’s decades older than me … J NP

***

Another wonderful blog!! Many thanks Nell!

I shall be raising my coffee up to you on 13th July.

Happy reading,

Jenny x

Category: crime Page 18 of 22

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