Jenny Kane: Coffee, cupcakes, chocolate and contemporary fiction / Jennifer Ash: Medieval crime with hints of Ellis Peters and Robin Hood

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Pre-order news: Abi’s Neighbour

Exciting news today for anyone who has been waiting for me to hurry up and write the sequel to my Cornish romance, Abi’s House!

Abi’s Neighbour will be out on 4th May!!

Check out this wonderfully summery cover!

Here’s the Blurb!

Abi Carter has finally found happiness in beautiful Cornwall, with her old tin miner’s cottage proving the perfect home. But all that’s about to change when a new neighbour moves in next door…

Cassandra Henley-Pinkerton represents everything Abi thought she’d escaped when she left London. She’s obnoxious, stuck-up, and hates living in Cornwall. Worst of all, she seems to have designs on Abi’s boyfriend Max…But Cassandra has her own problems. Her wealthy lawyer lover has promised to leave his wife and join her in their Cornish love nest – but something always comes up. Now, not only is Cassandra stuck on her own, miles away from her city lifestyle, but someone seems intent on sabotaging her successful business. Will she mellow enough to turn to Abi for help – or are the two just destined not to get along?

Complete with sun, sea and adorable Labrador Sadie, Abi’s Neighbour is the fantastic new novel by bestselling author Jenny Kane.

***

You can already pre-order your copy of the paperback from Amazon.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Abis-Neighbour-Jenny-Kane/dp/178615028X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1487006698&sr=1-1&keywords=abi%27s+neighbour

https://www.amazon.com/Abis-Neighbour-Jenny-Kane/dp/178615028X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1487006868&sr=1-1&keywords=Abi%27s+Neighbour+by+Jenny+Kane

E-Book pre-orders can be made here –

http://amzn.to/2ldVFtd

***

Although Abi’s Neighbour is a sequel, you can read it as a standalone book – however, it’s more fun to read Abi’s House first!! Links can be found here.

Happy pre-ordering!

Jenny xx

Romantic read for St Valentine’s Day

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Valentines

I thought, as a Valentine treat, I’d share a romantic extract from Another Cup of Coffee with you today!

****

…Amy was nervous, more nervous than when she’d caught up with Rob on her arrival in London.

Paul was late. She examined the inside of the intricate medieval stone work opposite her. The doorway to St Martins-in-the-Fields wasn’t easy to spot, Amy had walked past it by mistake before she’d come in, and she’d been here before. Maybe the British Museum would have been a better place to meet, or the Victoria and Albert? Amy glanced at the entrance for the tenth time in as many minutes. Paul might not even recognise her; after all, it had been a long time since they’d seen each other.

Her drink was already half gone. Amy checked her phone again. No messages. Giving up, she dug into her bag, bringing out the ever present novel.

Paul had spotted Amy as soon as he’d manoeuvred his six-foot-two frame through the low stone doorway. He’d been confident she would be in the café’s furthest corner, and sure enough, there she was. Amy had always adopted a position where she could hide. As he watched her, Paul wondered if it was even something she was conscious of.

There was a coffee cup by Amy already, and the book her nose was stuck into was a paperback of the more ponderous variety of classic. Most of the girls he met these days wouldn’t even have considered picking it up.

 

She was definitely a bit slimmer than he remembered, and her hair was sleeker, tethered back into two shoulder-length bunches that made her look younger than she was. Amy hadn’t managed to get them level, and one bunch was noticeably higher than the other. Paul found he was dying to straighten them out for her.

Her clothes were the same as in the old days, though; knowing Amy, Paul thought with a grin, they might well be exactly the same. Jeans and a stripy blue jumper, probably with a T-shirt beneath, very probably a black one. The only really noticeable difference between now and then was that she was wearing knee-length boots with a wedge heel rather than trainers.

Rob was right. Essentially, Amy Crane hadn’t changed a bit.

Suddenly aware that she was being observed, Amy looked up from her book.

‘Hello!’

Her face broke into a welcoming beam. ‘I thought you might have got lost.’ She stood up and found herself smothered in a massive bear hug. Paul smelt nice; all warm and clean without the overpowering scent of the male perfumes Amy so despised.

‘Tube delays. I couldn’t get a signal down there to let you know.’ Paul felt awkward, not quite sure what to say next, having held her slightly longer than perhaps was normal for a couple of friends. He’d engineered this opportunity to get her alone, and now he was here, he was tongue-tied.

Amy unwittingly came to his rescue. ‘You getting a coffee then?’

‘Yes, sure. You want a top-up? Black I assume?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Any cake?’

‘No thanks.’

coffee cups

Amy watched Paul flirt with the Polish girl behind the counter as he placed his request. He was taller than she remembered. His black hair was still cropped very short, but it wasn’t as severe as the shaved style he’d favoured as a student. His jeans were blue rather than black, and his shirt, although crumpled, was smarter than the off-white T-shirts she’d always associated with him. Smarter. He was definitely smarter. A huge brown overcoat, which probably weighed a ton, covered the back view of him almost completely, the heels of his Doc Martens only just visible below the hem.

How come she hadn’t noticed how attractive he was back then? Amy felt taken aback at the alien notion, and abruptly pushed the idea away. Yet that hug …

Amy reined in and dismissed her wild flight of fancy as Paul returned with their refreshments. After they’d covered a wide range of comfortable reminiscences and laughed heartily at their past selves, Amy brought the conversation back up-to-date.

‘So, is anyone special waiting for you back on site?’

Paul pushed his cup aside. ‘No. No one’s twiddling their trowel and pining for my return.’

‘That’s not like you.’

Paul regarded Amy as if she was nuts. ‘I’m not stuck in a timewarp, Amy. I’m thirty-four. That pretty much makes me the father figure. I’m the oldest guy on site by at least five years. It’s the twenty-something’s that have the trowel-twiddlers waiting for them these days.’

‘But surely …’ Amy was genuinely shocked. She was so sure that things would have been just as she’d left them. ‘You must meet heaps of nice people.’

‘Sure I do. I have many friends, both male and female, right across the world.’

Amy wasn’t quite sure why she pushed further, ‘But no one special?’

‘Not since uni.’ Paul sighed, not sure if he was ready to go where this conversation might take them.

‘Uni?’ Amy couldn’t believe it. This was Paul. The guy every girl had wanted to date back then. Well, every girl bar her. Yet none of the string of young women he’d dated had ever lasted more than a fortnight, and for the life of her, Amy couldn’t remember if Paul had especially liked any of them. ‘Who was that then? You never said at the time.’

Paul hesitated, before taking the easy way out, ‘You never met her. Let’s go and explore. Gallery, museum, or a walk in the park?’

Amy was disappointed by his answer, but accepted it for now. She looked at her watch; it had already gone one. ‘How about we nip into the National Portrait Gallery, have a quick mooch around and then grab a bit of lunch.’

‘Good idea, is there a good café in there?’

‘Two; but the Portrait Restaurant is fantastic, you get views right across London. I went in with my friend Kit before Christmas.’ Amy paused. ‘It’s a bit expensive though. We could go into the Lounge area, that’s better price-wise, although maybe we shouldn’t …’ Uncertainty took hold, as Amy’s words trailed off.

Paul intercepted her rambling, ‘Amy, this is my treat.’

‘But archaeologists earn crap money.’ Amy blushed as she blurted out the sentence.

‘Oh thanks!’ Paul laughed at her, ‘Although, I can’t argue. However, I have news on that front. Come on, I have heaps to tell you yet. Show me these amazing views of yours, and tell me about your new friends.’

They were in luck. After a companionable hour soaking in the diverse art work, they found a two-seater table available at the very edge of the lounge bar. After purchasing a glass of white wine each, they sat in silence for a moment, staring at the world through the window. It was all there. London. Everything the tourist could hope to see in one complete eyeful. St Paul’s, the Eye, Big Ben. Everything.

‘It quite takes the breath away Amy. All that history.’

Without turning from the view, Amy ran through their personal history as she replied. ‘I knew you’d appreciate it.’

The waiter came over and took their order for two bowls of wild mushroom soup and homemade bread, before leaving them to soak up the panorama. Amy was the first to break the silence, ‘You were going to tell me something?’

‘Ah, right,’ he put down his own glass and sat back in his seat, ‘I will, but first I want to know if you saw sense and took the management post you were offered?’

‘I did,’ Amy took a draft of alcohol, ‘thanks to you.’

‘Me?’

‘You helped me clarify a few things. I was so sure I had been set up, I felt feeling manipulated, but you made me see it wasn’t really like that.’

‘Of course it wasn’t.’

‘My friends were just trying to do their best for me.’

Paul was pleased, ‘Good. I’m glad. Now I can press ahead with my plans.’

Amy was intrigued, and more than a little impatient, ‘Tell me then!’

‘As I said, I’m no spring chicken on the excavation circuit. If I’m not actually running the dig, then I’m at least responsible for a good part of it.’

‘That’s great. Your CV must be excellent. You always were the only one who could tell an ordinary stone from a Neolithic axe-head.’

Paul smiled in acknowledgement, ‘I’ve seen the world Amy. I’ve found and seen all sorts of marvellous things. Written thousands of reports, drawn a million diagrams, been cited in heaps of books, but I’ve had enough.’

Amy was startled. ‘But Paul, it’s your life!’

‘Yes, it is. But I’m fast heading towards my forties, Amy. I have, as I’ve said, friends everywhere, but no one waits for me when I do get home. Only my parents miss me if a dig is extended at the last minute. It’s just not enough anymore.’

Like me, Amy thought. There’s no one at home, not for me anyway. ‘So, what will you do?’

Paul returned his gaze to the view; the people below looked tiny as they scuttled about, oblivious to the fact that they were being observed. ‘Is it nice living in London?’

‘Bit expensive I guess, and a touch overwhelming sometimes, but I like it.’ Amy began to nibble at the soft granary bread which a waiter had placed in the centre of their table.

‘Rob loves it, and I guess Jack does. I suppose the night life suits him.’ Paul verbally pounced as Amy reddened at the mention of Jack’s name, ‘What is it? What’s he done to you now?’

‘Nothing.’ Amy put up a hand, ‘Really, nothing. I’ll tell you all about it later. Go on with what you were telling me about London. Are you coming here to work? Are you?’ Amy felt as if she was on tenterhooks as she waited for his answer.

She seemed so eager; Paul felt more hopeful than he had dared allow himself to before. ‘I have the chance to. I wanted to know what you thought.’

‘And what Rob thinks, of course,’ Amy added.

‘Oh yes, and Rob.’ …

***

hearts

If you fancy finding what finds out next, or how much had to happened before Amy and Paul caught up with each other after years of being apart, you can buy Another Cup of Coffee as an e-book or a paperback from all good retailers including…

Amazon- http://www.amazon.com/Another-Cup-Of-Coffee-contemporary-ebook/dp/B00EVYZC7M/ref=pd_sim_kstore_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=15EFJ85882KQYAJ71KED

***

I hope you’re being treated well on this day of romance and snuggles.

Happy Valentine’s Day,

Jenny xx

Poetical twists and turns: Trina J. Stacey

I’m delighted to welcome friend and fellow Devon writer, Trina J. Stacey, to my blog today to share some thoughts and a little poetry.

Over to you Trina…

Thanks for inviting me over to your place today Jenny.

I grew up on a farm in mid Devon, UK, then left home at 18 to pursue a normal career and eventually discovered it wasn’t for me. At the age of 40, further to living in various parts of the UK and 11 years in Perth, Australia, I heeded the call to return home and now reside in Tiverton with my young family.

After several years of sporadically journaling my thoughts, feelings and emotions and attempting to process them, they began to form themselves into poems. This took my simple logical brain somewhat by surprise yet I also had a hunch that my outpourings weren’t meant just for me, so began sharing a few on social media. The responses I received gave me ample confirmation that others were connecting with them too.

Apparently I can now call myself a poet and author, something I am both embracing and still coming to terms with. I am also a spiritual life coach and not least a mother of two highly energetic (spirited) children!

The many twists and turns of my life and consequent spiritual development journey form the basis for the insights that I now share through my poems and in my books Join the Spiritual Dots, Join the Spiritual Dots Goes Deeper and 100 Nuggets of Inspiration.

The poems are not intended to be literary masterpieces indeed this is not their purpose. They are authentic, simple and inspiring verses that are accessible to everyone.

 

I meet many writers and poets who have had a long-term love of words. I am a late-developer (in many ways!) and actually believe that what triggered the unlocking of this more creative aspect of myself was a big life challenge I faced during my mid-thirties. At this time I lost everything in a financial sense. It was a very traumatic time in many ways, but somehow I maintained a strong-belief in something greater at play leading me on, a feeling deep within that there was a bigger role for me to fulfil, inspiring me to simply keep on keeping on in spite of everything that was occurring in my outer world. I am now in immense gratitude for this deeply humbling and life-changing event which prompted me to completely re-define what being successful meant to me. As a result I made a firm commitment to myself to keep following my heart and focus on doing what I love.

….

Love Change (from the book Join the Spiritual Dots)

The fear of change is all around, it’s everywhere we go

People hold on to the past, to what they think they know

What lies around the corner may be different than the now

We want to control the outcome and to figure out the How

What we really fear is the path ahead that’s unknown

Yet our future is being determined by the seeds already sown

So by continuing in fear, what are we trying to create?

Why not let this way of thinking go? Choose a different fate

What’s the point of having worries? Most don’t even come about

Let’s not water those fears further, let them think that there’s a drought

And, What if something magical was on its way to you?

But by holding on to fear, you prevent it from coming true

Could we choose to form a new belief? Decide to embrace change

Expect the unexpected, the exciting and the strange

Be open to a miracle, believe they can be real

Imagine the impossible and how that would make us feel

Let go of rules, how things should be and live in such a way

That it would be unusual if change wasn’t part of our day

To evolve is vital for all of life, so why would we choose to fear?

An important part of ourselves, our reason for being here

…..

My books are available on Amazon in both paperback and e-book formats:

www.bit.ly/trinajstacey

You can also find me on:

Facebook www.facebook.com/jointhespiritualdots

Twitter: www.twitter.com/trinajstacey

Web www.trinastacey.com

***

Great stuff! Thanks Trina.

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny xx

Robin of Sherwood is coming back: Are you listening?

Robin of Sherwood is coming back: Are you listening?

Yes- you are reading this correctly, my favourite show of all time, that classic of the 1980’s- Robin of Sherwood- is making a comeback – on audio!!

Last year my blog was awash with the excitement of a one-off audio episode of Robin of Sherwood starring Jason Connery as Robin, and the rest of the original 1980’s cast. That episode, The Knight’s of the Apocalypse, was a runaway success – and so the boys are getting back together again- as well as the gorgeous Judi Trott as Marian of course!

Audio programme makers Spiteful Puppet are now taking pre-orders for 4 brand-new adventures of Robin of Sherwood on audio, with the return of the original cast and – even more excitedly – both Robins. Yes, Michael Praed is returning to the role of Robin of Loxley in two stories and Jason Connery comes back as Robert of Huntingdon in the other two stories.

As with last year’s audio production, work cannot go ahead with a large number of pre-orders to fund production. Spiteful Puppet are now approximately 100 orders away from doing that, with a deadline of the end of February. If we don’t manage to hit the target by then, then I’m afraid we have to halt production and refund all orders!!!

DON’T LET THIS HAPPEN!!! You’d make this author a very unhappy soul if it the episodes couldn’t be made. Yes, I am still obsessed with Robin Hood! Just one peep inside my novel, Romancing Robin Hood is enough to confirm that for you!

In case making me happy isn’t enough incentive for you to place your order this very moment- how about this…

…everyone who pre-orders their 4 episodes gets put into a draw to visit one of the recording sessions and there will also be signed scripts available to others!!! I had the sheer luck to be at the premier of last years episode- and it was AWESOME. Being at the actual recording would be even better!!

Sadly, at the current time, Spiteful Puppet can’t take orders for the CDs or the Download if you haven’t got a UK address, due to the complicated and expensive nature of the international rights issues. However, if you can find a fan friend in the UK who will buy it for you, then please do so!

So – here is that all important pre-order link: https://www.spitefulpuppet.com/shopp.php

Robin of Sherwood has been a major part of my life since I was 14 – I can believe I’m getting the chance to hear new episodes now I’m in my 40’s!!!

If you have any questions re the pre-orders or Robin of Sherwood in general, I’ll be happy to pass them on, or try and answer the queries myself.

Happy listening,

Jenny xx

Romancing it medieval style

Romancing Robin Hood is a contemporary romance all about history lecturer Dr Grace Harper- a woman nuts about Robin Hood (especially the 1980’s television show, Robin of Sherwood).

Not only does Romancing Robin Hood tell the story of Grace’s fight to find time for love in her own busy work filled life, it also contains a secondary story – a medieval mystery that Grace is writing.

history-of-ashby-folville

In the story Grace is writing, her fourteenth century protagonist, Mathilda, is getting to know the real life outlaw family- the Folville’s- rather better than she would have liked. As well as living with them, Mathilda suddenly finds herself under a very frightening type of suspicion.

RRH- new 2015

Here’s an extract from Mathilda’s story as Grace sits and writes it…

Mathilda thought she was used to darkness, but the dim candlelight of the comfortable small room she shared at home with her brothers was nothing like this. The sheer density of this darkness seemed to envelop her, physically gliding over Mathilda’s clammy goose-pimpled skin. This was an extreme blackness that coated her, making her breathless, as if it was stealthfully compressing her lungs and squeezing the life from her.

Unable to see the floor, Mathilda presumed, as she pressed her naked foot against it and damp oozed between her toes, that the suspiciously soft surface she was sat on was moss, which in a room neglected for years had been allowed it to form a cushion on the stone floor. It was a theory backed up by the smell of mould and general filthiness which hung in the air.

Trying not to think about how long she was going to be left in this windowless cell, Mathilda stretched out her arms and bravely felt for the extent of the walls, hoping she wasn’t about to touch something other than cold stone. The child’s voice that lingered at the back of her mind, even though she was a woman of nineteen, was telling her – screaming at her – that there might be bodies in here, still clapped in irons, abandoned and rotting. Mathilda battled the voice down; knowing it that would do her no good at all. Her father had always congratulated Mathilda on her level headedness, and now it was being put to the test. She was determined not to let him down now.

Placing the very tips of her fingers against the wall behind her, she felt her way around. It was wet. Trickles of water had found a way in from somewhere, giving the walls the same slimy covering as the floor. Mathilda traced the outline of the rough stone wall, keeping her feet exactly where they were. In seconds her fingers came to a corner, and twisting at the waist, she managed to plot her prison from one side of the heavy wooden door to the other, without doing more than extending the span of her arms.

Mathilda decided the room could be no more than five feet square, although it must be about six foot tall. Her own five-foot frame had stumbled down a step when she’d been pushed into the cell, and her head was at least a foot clear of the ceiling. The bleak eerie silence was eating away at her determination to be brave, and the cold brought her suppressed fear to the fore. Suddenly the shivering Mathilda had stoically ignored overtook her, and there was nothing she could do but let it invade her small slim body.

Wrapping her thin arms around her chest, she pulled up her hood, hugged her grey woollen surcoat tighter about her shoulders, and sent an unspoken prayer of thanks up to Our Lady for the fact that her legs were covered.

She’d been helping her two brothers, Matthew and Oswin, to catch fish in the deeper water beyond the second of Twyford’s fords when the men had come. Mathilda had been wearing an old pair of Matthew’s hose, although no stockings or shoes. She thought of her warm footwear, discarded earlier with such merry abandon. A forgotten, neglected pile on the river bank; thrown haphazardly beneath a tree in her eagerness to get them off and join the boys in their work. It was one of the only tasks their father gave them that could have been considered fun.

Mathilda closed her eyes, angry as the tears she’d forbidden herself to shed defied her stubborn will and came anyway. With them came weariness. It consumed her, forcing her to sink onto the rotten floor. Water dripped into her long, lank red hair. The tussle of capture had loosened its neatly woven plait, and now it hung awkwardly, half in and half out of its bindings, like a badly strapped sheaf of strawberry corn.

She tried not to start blaming her father, but it was difficult not to. Why hadn’t he told her he’d borrowed money from the Folvilles? It was an insane thing to do. Only the most desperate … Mathilda stopped her thoughts in their tracks. They were disloyal and pointless…

…Does Mathilda seem miserable and scared enough? Grace wasn’t sure she’d laid the horror of the situation on thick enough. On the other hand, she didn’t want to drown her potential readers in suffering-related adjectives.

No, on reflection it was fine; certainly good enough to leave and come back to on the next read through. She glanced at the clock at the corner of the computer screen. How the hell had it got to eight thirty already? Grace’s stomach rumbled, making her think of poor Mathilda in her solitary prison.

Switching off her computer, Grace crammed all her notes into her bag so she could read over them at home, and headed out of her office. Walking down the Queen’s Road, which led from the university to her small home in Leicester’s Clarendon Park region, Grace decided it was way too hot, even at this time of the evening, to stand in the kitchen and attempt, and probably fail, to cook something edible, so she’d grab a takeaway.

Grateful it wasn’t term time, so she didn’t have to endure the banter of the students who were also waiting for associated plastic boxes of Chinese food, Grace speedily walked home, and without bothering to transfer her chicken chow mein to another dish, grabbed a fork, kicked off her shoes, and settled herself down with her manuscript…

***

Romancing Robin Hood – 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

Available in e-format and paperback.

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

Kobo link – http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/romancing-robin-hood

Nook link- http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/romancing-robin-hood-jenny-kane/1121088562?ean=9781783754267

***

Since I wrote this medieval sub plot to the main romance of the modern part of Romancing Robin Hood, I have rewritten it, expanded it, and re-released it as a separate novella – The Outlaws’ Ransom. This means you have a choice of how to read the story of Mathilda of Twyford.

You can buy The Outlaw’s Ransom here- http://amzn.to/2dr5ZPo

Happy reading everyone!

Jenny Kane xx

Kate Griffin talks Kitty Peck!

Forgive me a small fan girl moment.

I can’t quite believe I have Kate Griffin on my blog today. Her Kitty Peck series is just brilliant. Not a single word is wasted throughout. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I wish I’d written these books myself!

And what’s more, having had the pleasure of meeting Kate at the Tiverton Literary Festival last year, I can tell you she is a lovely person as well- with great taste in Thai food.

Why not grab a cuppa- possibly with cake- put your feet up for a few minutes, and have a read.

Over to you Kate…

First a big thank you to Jenny for inviting me to contribute and also a huge thank for responding to my Kitty Peck books so enthusiastically. As she also delves into the shady corners of history, her appreciation means a great deal!

Writing a novel is a bit like mountaineering. Admittedly, climbing Mount Everest is a lot more dangerous than sitting in your pyjamas and eating Hobnobs while tapping away at a laptop, but  bear with me because there are definite parallels.

When the going’s good you manage to cover a vast distance in a surprisingly short space of time but on a rough day it doesn’t matter how long you slog away – head down against the wind, digging your crampons into the crumbling ice underfoot – nothing comes right.

Hours can pass and then when you finally look up, snow-blind from the glaring whiteness of the empty screen in front of you, it’s soul-destroying to find that you’ve hardly gone anywhere at all.

Even your ‘footsteps’ – those few feeble paragraphs you managed to hack out – have probably been deleted as you became increasingly dejected, disoriented and unsure which way to go.

It’s as if snow has fallen on your tracks, obliterating every trace of your progress.

Whiteout.

On grim days like this a mountaineer stops, pitches camp, brews up something hot and strong and takes cover until the blizzard has passed.

In writing terms, ‘pitching camp’ means admitting temporary defeat. When nothing comes together, it’s best to switch off your computer (or close your notebook if you’re a long-hander) and do something else, preferably something that makes you happy.

A break usually clears the head and clears the way.

But even then, once you’ve gathered your strength, consulted your charts and stepped boldly back on the trail, the way to the summit can still be treacherous and deceptive.

Sometimes you’re so busy concentrating on reaching those far glittering peaks that you don’t notice the bottomless crevasse yawning in front of you. By this I mean the gaping hole in the plot that you never realised was there until you tried to marshal your characters across the final glacier and en-route to the sunlit upland ending of your story.

One minute it was all going so well; the next you have no alternative but to find another route to your neatly planned conclusion.

Sometimes it can take days to retrace your steps to chart a new way forward or around the chasm. In particularly hazardous conditions you might even have to go right back to the beginning, re-stock your supplies and start out again.

More fortunately, just occasionally when you find yourself teetering on the brink of a deep dark void, inspiration strikes and you find exactly the right piece of equipment in your rucksack to enable you to perform a miraculous leap to safety.

By ‘equipment’ I mean your plot or your characters. It’s amazing how helpful and inventive they can be when you put your mind to it!

Then again, your characters can also be difficult, dangerous travelling companions, particularly the pesky independent ones who refuse to listen to your strict instructions and insist on going off by themselves, getting totally lost in the craggy, uncharted landscape – ie, the parts of your story that you never had any intention of writing. All it takes is to allow a character to wander a few steps off the track you’ve planned and that’s it. They can be missing for days!

By the time you realise what they’ve gone and done, it usually takes a major search party (aka a complete re-write) to locate them and bring them back to the trail.

At testing times like these many writers would be thrilled to see a St Bernard lolloping to the rescue with a giant barrel of brandy hanging round its neck. (Or, in my case, gin).

Now, I’m horribly aware that I’ve pushed my mountaineering metaphor to the limit of human endurance, but there’s one last comparison I’d like to make, and for me it’s very relevant.

Kate Griffin with Michael Jecks, Ruth Ware & Chris Ewan at Tiverton Lit Festival

This week, I’m about to embark on the fourth instalment of my Kitty Peck mystery series, published by Faber and Faber.

Kitty’s world is a version of London in the early 1880s. The setting will be familiar to anyone who loves Conan Doyle’s wonderful Sherlock Holmes stories. Kitty’s London, specifically Limehouse, is a place where menace lurks in the swirling mist rising from the Thames and where the rumble of a hackney carriage generally bodes ill. Kitty is the youthful proprietress of three tawdry music halls, but she is also more, much more.

By the end of the year I hope that Kitty and I will have gone on one last journey together.  At the moment, we’re both at base camp. Around 400 snow-blank pages lie ahead and I have to find a way to guide us across that vast and virgin expanse.

I know exactly where we’re going. If I shield my eyes and squint into the far distance I can see the sparkling summit – our final destination.

I’ve spent the last few months planning and researching. I’ve worked out the route and packed essentials for the journey (well, Hobnobs and gin) but, as I explained above, you can never be quite sure what might crop up on the way.

Now as I stare at all that whiteness ahead, I have to admit that I’m excited… and slightly terrified.

 

If you’d like to catch up, the first two books in the Kitty Peck series have just been released as a single ebook:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Kitty-Peck-Mysteries-Murders-Ill-Fortune-ebook/dp/B01M8G7QL2

The third book in the series, Kitty Peck and the Daughter of Sorrow, will be published in summer this year:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Kitty-Peck-Daughter-Sorrow/dp/0571315208

***

What a wonderful blog. Like many writers, I totally equate with the feelings of terror you have described! However, having read the Kitty Peck books to date, I can tell you, you have nothing to worry about!

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny x

 

 

 

Here begins 2017

It’s that time again! The end of the month mean a visit from Nell Peters!

Over to you Nell…

Yo folks, and welcome to my first monthly guest spot of 2017 on Jenny’s blog – grab a cup of something tasty, pull up a sock and chill out with us for a few moments. You know you want to.

On this day in 1606, Guy (Guido) Fawkes was executed for the part he played in the plot to blow up Parliament the previous November. The conspirators’ trial began on 27th January, so there was no hanging around (so sorry!) after an unsurprising ‘guilty’ verdict was returned by the jury. GF had, after all, been caught loitering with intent around several kegs of gunpowder in the cellars.

The Lord Chief Justice found all the accused culpable of high treason and they were sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered, or in the Attorney General’s words, ‘put to death halfway between heaven and earth as unworthy of both’. I will use great restraint here and refrain from mentioning anything about a suspended sentence. Genitals were to be cut off (double ouch!) and burned, then their bowels and hearts removed – decapitation to follow for good measure, and the dismembered parts of their bodies displayed, so that they would become ‘prey for the fowls of the air’. Slight case of overkill perhaps? Anyone would think they’d seriously hacked someone off …

Fawkes was the last to die – as he began to climb the ladder to the noose, he managed to avoid the agonies of the more gory part of his dispatch by breaking his neck when jumping to his death from the scaffold. Nevertheless, his corpse was quartered and his body parts distributed to ‘the four corners of the kingdom’, to be displayed as a warning to other would-be traitors. I’m guessing by that stage he didn’t really care too much.

A.A. Milne, author of Winnie the Pooh, died less spectacularly on this day in 1956. Last Christmas, we gave each of the (three) granddaughters a small silver pendant inscribed with a Milne quote; ‘you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.’ I hope they all remember that, when I’m not around to remind them and nag them into pursuing and attaining their goals, whatever they might be. Hold onto your hats as we travel forward in time sixty years, to when the death of broadcaster Sir Terry Wogan hit the news in 2016 – at the end of a month that had already seen the demise of David Bowie and Alan Rickman. Little did we know then what a year for ‘celebrity’ deaths it would turn out to be! I read somewhere that the score was eighty-two, but don’t quote me on that.

Hopping centuries, long before the wee leader of the SNP was a twinkle in her ol’  grand pappy’s eye, on Friday 31 January 1919 – thereafter known as Bloody Friday – more than sixty thousand demonstrators gathered in George Square, Glasgow (know it well!) in support of a strike demanding reduction of the working week to 40 hours. While a deputation from the Clyde Workers’ Committee was in City Chambers to hear the Lord Provost’s reply to their petition, police mounted an unprovoked attack on protesters, felling unarmed men and women with their batons. How rude! Inspector Jim Taggart (he of ‘there’s been a muurrrrda’ fame) would never have behaved so outrageously – although it could have been so much worse if they’d revved up the bagpipes … Not about to give in, the demonstrators, with ex-servicemen fresh from WWI to the fore, retaliated with fists, iron railings and broken bottles, forcing the police to retreat – which sadly sounds a lot like your average Saturday night in many UK cities nowadays. Strike leaders rushed outside to restore order, but one, David Kirkwood, was clobbered with a truncheon, and along with William Gallacher, arrested – a ‘why did I bother getting out of bed?’ moment, if ever there was one. English troops arrived later with machine guns, tanks and a 4.5” Howitzer – unless you were certifiably insane, you wouldn’t argue with that lot.

On 10th February the strike was called off by the Joint Committee – whilst not achieving their goal of 40 hours, workers from the engineering and shipbuilding industries did return to work clutching an agreement that guaranteed a 47 hour week, seven hours less than they worked previously, although their morning haggis break went down the Swanee minus a paddle. What part-timers! Most writers would give their right arms – and possibly legs – to have their noses to the screen for a mere fifty-four hours a week!

Many others still work very long hours in their chosen professions – junior doctors come swiftly to mind, especially med students on clinical placements. I did a stint in A&E (which does not stand for Anything and Everything, although a high percentage of visitors don’t appear to realise that!) with a name badge declaring me ‘Dr’, even though I was a million miles away from being one. That is not to boost the student’s ego, but to give the poor patients faith in their attending’s ability to patch them up and send them on their way in a healthier state than when they arrived. It was a very scary place to be – imagine a scatty, skinny young thing who looked about twelve (thereby instilling confidence in absolutely no one, staff or patients), let loose on whoever walked, or was carried, through the door in search of a miracle cure. If you had any sense at all, you’d run a mile wouldn’t you, no matter what was wrong with you? Trying to project an air of professional confidence, but in reality barely knowing my gluteus maximus from my humerus, I wandered lonely as a cloud, knowing I’d made the wrong career choice. All this typically on a couple of hours sleep snatched during the last seventy-two. It’s a wonder anyone ever escapes from the department alive – a bit of Darwin’s survival of the fittest thing going on there.

Last autumn, the OH and I had a taste of just how green the average A&E medic is, when my father was taken there by ambulance. He was suffering from a prolapsed bowel, which was obviously causing him ongoing pain, and because Dad has vascular dementia and is basically away with the fairies, the doc spoke directly with us, ignoring his patient. After I gave a potted history of the problem, he looked at me pityingly and told me in all seriousness there was no such thing as a prolapsed bowel, only a prolapsed womb. I could hardly contain myself! However, after a spluttered ‘What?!’ I felt a sharp kick to my ankle, courtesy the OH, and didn’t continue with ‘have you actually passed any of those pesky exams they make you sit/perhaps it’s time for you to hit Gray’s Anatomy; the book, not the TV series/have you considered an alternative career as a road sweeper, where you can’t do actual physical harm to others’/all of the above. I believe it was after that we drove off with a sandwich and banana on the car roof …

Like many stressful work environments, there’s a lot of graveyard humour flying around A&E, including the shorthand used in patients’ notes – most of it in very bad taste. For example, WWI – walking while intoxicated (fell over); DTS – danger to shipping (fat); VAC – vultures are circling (on last legs); PAAF – pissed as a fart; Organ recital – hypochondriac’s medical notes; NQRITH – not quite right in the head; AALFD – another a***hole looking for drugs; AHF – acute hissy fit; BMW – bitch, moan and whine; JIC – Jesus is calling; LLS: looks like sh*t; KFO – knock the f*cker out (obnoxious patient); LMC – low marble count (dumb); FFDIG – found face down in gutter; HIVI – husband is village idiot; GRAFOB – grim reaper at foot of bed; FLP – funny looking parents (of child patient); DUB – damn ugly baby; Doughnut of death – CT scan; DIFFC – dropped in for friendly chat (nothing wrong); CBT – chronic burger toxicity (obese); MGM syndrome – faker putting on a good show; TSL – too stupid to live. Enough! There are zillions …

 

On a slightly – very slightly – more sophisticated note, two ageing punk rockers celebrate 31/1 birthdays as Aquarians. One, American Michael John Burkett, aka Fat Mike, aka Cokie the Clown, clocks up fifty years today. Not heard of him? Me neither, but John Joseph Lydon (61) might ring a few bells as ‘legend’ (seriously?) Johnny Rotten, of Sex Pistols fame. Living abroad, I missed the heyday of punk culture, for want of a better term, with its anti-establishment dialogue expressed mainly through shouty song lyrics and anarchic behaviour, all accessorised by enough safety pins to hold the Brighton Pavilion together. How bizarre that anyone could launch a whole career based on being loudly obnoxious, confrontational and nihilistic toward societal norms and values.

In January 2004, Lydon appeared in the jungle on I’m a Sleb and demonstrated that he had perfected the art of never evolving (or indeed growing up), by using obscene language during a live TV broadcast (surprise, surprise!), prompting a slew of complaints from outraged viewers. Mission Look At Me (or CFA in A&E speak – cry for attention) accomplished. What did producers expect from someone quoted as saying, ‘I’m not here for your amusement; you’re here for mine’? Possibly a few ego issues going on there, Johnny, old chap. Most bizarre of all, came an advertising campaign in 2008 for Country Life butter, with Lydon portraying a toff, as opposed to social activist – intellectual irony? I couldn’t possibly comment.

We can only hope that actresses Minnie Driver (47 today) and Portia de Rossi (44), as well as singer Justin Timberlake (36) are slightly more typical of the water carrier air sign, which encompasses those born between January 20th and February 18th. Characteristically, they are progressive, original, independent and humanitarian, but they also avoid emotional expression, are temperamental, uncompromising and aloof. My mother will be ninety on 2/2 and she has made an art form of those last four. Aquarians are shy and quiet, but can be eccentric and energetic – they tend to be deep thinkers and highly intellectual folk who love helping others and are able to assess both sides of a situation without prejudice, making them great at solving problems. OK, The Mater def has her DoB wrong …

Because I wrote my NYE blog long before Christmas Day, I wasn’t able to mention two of my favourite gifts received – a little porcelain chicken from GD Daisy and another, larger, sculpted metal beauty to keep cockerel Vladimir company in the garden, from GSs Alfred and Sidney! They are called Valentina and Raisa respectively – and no beastly cat or other predator is ever going to cause them harm. Raisa has turned out to be most aptly named; we’ve had some strong winds lately and because – unlike Vladimir – she is a two-sided fowl with a hollow belly, she’s been blown over a few times. So, I have to raise her and stand her back on her feet! Boom, boom!

Probably time to disappear, hanging my head in shame … but before I do, just thought I’d mention there are only 334 days left until we get to party again on NYE 2017!

I’m gone … toodles!

NP

Author.to/NellPeters

***

Another brilliant blog!! Thanks so much hun.

Happy reading,

Jenny x

Another Cup of Coffee ONLY 99p/99c

What better way to spend the weekend, than with a cuppa, your feet up, and a new book to read?

The first novel in my ‘Another Cup of…’ series, Another Cup of Coffee, is currently available at a BARGAIN price!

ONLY 99p/99c

Another Cup of Coffee - New cover 2015

Blurb-

Thirteen years ago Amy Crane ran away from everyone and everything she knew, ending up in an unfamiliar city with no obvious past and no idea of her future. Now, though, that past has just arrived on her doorstep, in the shape of an old music cassette that Amy hasn’t seen since she was at university.
Digging out her long-neglected Walkman, Amy listens to the lyrics that sound tracked her student days. As long-buried memories are wrenched from the places in her mind where she’s kept them safely locked away for over a decade, Amy is suddenly tired of hiding.
It’s time to confront everything about her life. Time to find all the friends she left behind in England, when her heart got broken and the life she was building for herself got completely shattered. Time to make sense of all the feelings she’s been bottling up for all this time. And most of all, it’s time to discover why Jack has sent her tape back to her now, after all these years…
With her mantra, “New life, New job, New home”, playing on a continuous loop in her head, Amy gears herself up with yet another a bucked-sized cup of coffee, as she goes forth to lay the ghost of first love to rest…

coffee and cake

You can pick up this word-ish cup of coffee, for less than the price of a real cup of coffee via this link- mybook.to/cupcoffee

***

Happy reading!

Jenny x

Meet Richard Dee

Today I’m delighted to be handing over my blog to a fellow Devon based writer, Richard Dee. Why not go and grab a cuppa, and then come and get acquainted?

Over to you Richard…

Hello everyone and my thanks to Jenny for the spot today. Let me introduce myself.

I’m Richard Dee and I write mainly Science Fiction and Steampunk style stories. If that means space shenanigans, fantastic planets, and Queen Victoria on steroids to you, well that’s a pretty fair guide to some of what I do. If you don’t know what I mean, just take a look at the covers. And before you double take, yes that is a medieval helmet in one of the pictures.

I was actually asked to do a story for the 1066 Turned Upside Down project by the wonderful Helen Hollick.

For those who don’t know about 1066 TUD, it’s a collection of short stories offering an alternative take on the events surrounding the Battle of Hastings and what might have been. For my contribution, I chose to write about the butterfly effect and… well, you’ll just have to read it to find out. The book contains eleven stories from nine authors.

I did wonder if Sci-fi was a good fit for historical fiction but judging by these review comments that I found; I seem to have fitted in nicely.

“I found the inclusion of a story from Richard Dee, of the science fiction genre, a masterstroke and a worthy contribution.”

“One of my favourite stories had to be the tale by Richard Dee, the perfect mix of science fiction and historical fiction.”

“Richard Dee was another new author for me, but his submission stood out for a couple of reasons. Unlike his fellows, Dee put a bit of a sci-fi twist on 1066 and wrote a story that is set largely in the modern world. It was a dramatic shift and it threw me at first, but looking back I think the submission one of the strongest pieces in the anthology. I thought it was fun, I thought it was creative, and I liked how it allowed the reader a unique vantage point and perspective.”

To be honest, I’ve never really liked the idea of genres and stereotypes. When it comes right down to it, it’s all fiction and as well as the science mine all contain elements of every other genre, history, crime, war, fantasy and even a little romance. In fact, they’re populated by ordinary people; they have the same emotions and the same motivation as we all do as they go about the tasks I’ve set them.

The universes that they inhabit may be strange to us, but they’re natural to them. Science fiction is such a broad platform; mine is just as concerned with the triumphs of people as it is with the wonders of the science. To me, the science is just another character, it can have emotion and a voice, in the same way that any person or setting can.

I like to think of the words of Captain James T Kirk; when he was asked if he was from outer space. He simply replied. “No. I’m from Iowa; I just work in Outer Space.”

I hope that my stories work as stories and not just as “sci-fi.” That might make you wonder why I chose sci-fi as a vehicle for them. And the answer might not be what you would think.

When I first started writing, I thought that sci-fi would be easy to write, after all; how could you research the future? I could just drop my plot and characters into the future somewhere – easy! And that was mistake number one! I’m sure I do at least as much research as everyone else, just to make sure that all my settings have a basis in fact. And that at least part of it sounds true, or at least sounds possible based on what we know today.

The consequence of that is that on the way I’ve made up more back stories than I could shake a stick at. They form the basis of my Short story collection Flash Fiction and have given me short stories in abundance, enough for Flash Fiction 2 in fact. And the more novels I write, the more back stories I need.

As well as the usual creation of worlds, spaceships and technology; I’ve invented the inventor of faster-than-light travel and told everyone how he did it (The tale of Christopher Padgett), explored the dichotomy of time dilation (Tales from the Sleepers), and wondered how the future will see history (Looking back at our Future). I even invented a magazine to print the articles of future history that form the backdrop to my adventures (Galactographic!).

And in the new collection will be farming in Space (The Orbital Livestock Company), The Grandfather paradox (It works both ways), and much more, including several Steampunk vignettes from my world of Norlandia.

And now that I’ve invented these things, I can use them in all my universes. Nothing is ever wasted, and crossovers abound. And thanks to my loyal readers, what were originally intended to be stand-alone stories are becoming series.

My debut novel, Freefall, is a tale of loss, loneliness and the biggest story ever kept from us by an authoritarian government.

The second, Ribbonworld, features corporate espionage and conspiracy set on a planet that we have no right to exist on.

The third, The Rocks of Aserol, takes place in an alternative Victorian society where oil and electricity have never had a chance to shape the lives of the inhabitants.

Incidentally, until I started this one, I never realised what you could make of a world without the things we all take for granted. Never mind warp drive and photon torpedoes, in the Steampunk universe; the possibilities are as endless as they are ten thousand years from now!

And thanks to my readers Freefall now has a prequel. Myra will be published in about six weeks. And I’ve got enough ideas for a third story in the series as well.

Ribbonworld has a sequel called Jungle Green, which is destined to see the light of day soon and The Rocks of Aserol has a sequel in development. All these are the direct result of feedback. But they haven’t stopped me writing anything new.

One of my short stories has spawned a book, featuring a new heroine. Andorra Pett first made her appearance in a short story last year in my collection Flash Fiction.

After much encouragement, she is set for a full novel soon, it’s just about written, in the queue for editing and beta reading (if you’re interested, let me know), and the cover is done, now all I have to do is find the time to publish it.

Going back to Myra, to give you a small taste of what’s to come, the story is titled for the heroine in Freefall.

It was written to explain a remark our hero, Dave Travise, makes when he is continually reminded of the fact that Myra isn’t around anymore.  Here’s the quote from Freefall.

No matter how many times I hear the voice – it’s Myra by the way, it reminds me of the happy times. When she had put her voice print on the computer she said it was so she could order me around. It must be fifteen years ago but I sometimes look over my shoulder expecting to see her in the hatchway. You can still see the faint dent in the panel if you look closely, I try not to. The paint was worn there; I rubbed it every time I passed.”

A lot of people asked me what the significance of that dent was; rather than keep explaining, I wrote a book as an explanation. If you want to know more about the dent, and what happened to cause it, Freefall is available now and Myra will be published on March 15th 2017 in all the usual places. But here’s a clue.

“I turned, and even though I didn’t immediately realise it, it was then that I fell in love.”

Meet Dave Travise, at least that’s who his identity chip says he is. An ex-navy man on the run; somehow he’s ended up in a dead man’s shoes; on a new ship and on the wrong side of the law.

With no way to prove his innocence, he’s just got to play along and keep his head down if he’s going to survive. As if he doesn’t have enough problems, now he’s fallen for Myra, the engineer on his new home.

Pursued by criminal gangs and keeping one jump ahead of everyone, Dave and his new shipmates are going to need all the luck in the Galaxy just to stay alive.

Myra tells the story of how Finn Douglas, Naval Officer; became Dave Travise, Galactic trader. And what happened before Freefall.

And what do my readers say; well here are a couple of examples,

“I’m not usually a fan of Science Fiction but Ribbonworld is a thriller that would work in any genre.”

“FREEFALL is a rattling good adventure story, with a few unexpected twists, good characters and plenty of action.”

“There’s something of a ripping yarn about this excellent tale of adventure. False accusations, discoveries kept secret, villains who murder to get their way, and the whiff of requited love – it’s all here in this classic steampunk saga.”

***

So where does all this come from, where does a man who failed English at O level way back in 1974 get his motivation.

For me, it all starts with a film I saw way back when I was an apprentice in the Merchant Navy. We were in New York in 1977 and the locals were all raving about a new film called Star Wars. I went to see it and it blew my mind. The technology was understated, it was greasy and it was prone to breaking down, that made it more believable to me than any shiny gadget from the future that I had seen before.

This was the kind of future I wanted to write about, the kind where the hero’s in trouble and he pushes a button in the hope that something will actually happen. Where mankind has spread among the stars and bought all his Earthly vices with him. Or an alternative reality; where mighty machines powered by Steam and Clockwork drive a society that’s uneasy with the price of progress.

There was a pause while life got in the way, I got married, got qualified (Master Mariner, BSc, First Class Thames Pilot) and survived (just) having three daughters. Writing was way down on my list. Then I retired and with the time to think, the creativity really started. And once I got started then the ideas flooded in and the work poured out. Freefall was published in 2013 (34 years after I had the first idea), Ribbonworld in 2015 and The Rocks of Aserol last year. I have three novels currently in the final stages of publication, Myra will come out in March 2017, as for the others; I’m not sure about them yet.

And that brings me to the last part of my story, I self-publish. I own a publishing imprint, 4Star Scifi, and in that respect, I’m my own boss.

I don’t set myself deadlines and I don’t take a percentage. What I have is control and a marvelous, hand-picked team behind me. Without my editor, my cover designer and everyone else, the person who formats my work, the beta readers, and my fiercest critic; my ideas would be just that.

Of course, emotion is important in all my work, where would we be without it? Why would you mount a white charger if you didn’t want to rescue the maiden? Why would you caress a dent in the panel if you hadn’t loved and lost?

My website says “Welcome to my Worlds,” but they aren’t just mine; they’re the worlds that I think we all want to inhabit.

***

And now, some advertising

You can find me at www.richarddeescifi.co.uk, there’s all my news and lots of free content for you to enjoy, I try to post a new short story every month or so. You’ll also find details of my novels and works in progress.

I’m on Facebook at @RichardDeeAuthor

Amazon links to my books

Freefall: myBook.to/Freefall

Ribbonworld: myBook.to/Ribbonworld

The Rocks of Aserol: getBook.at/Rocks

1066 Turned Upside Down: http://mybook.to/1066TurnedUpsideDown

Flash Fiction: myBook.to/Flash

To finish up, here’s a quick Flash Fiction from my website, my thanks to Jenny for the platform and to you for making it this far. I hope you enjoy it.

Man of Mystery.

The plastic bag lay on the bed where it had fallen from the package. This was it; the final piece of the plan had arrived. I was ready to begin.

I looked around the bedroom; it was a wreck, the doors had been ripped off the wardrobe and hung by the bottom hinges, the drawers were all tipped on the floor, contents strewn. The bed was unmade; quilt heaped. The heavy curtains were making the room dark; the window faced east and the room was normally filled with morning light. Not today.

It had taken me a while to achieve the look of a robbery and I had enjoyed every minute of it. I felt like I was starting to get my power back, that I was no longer at the bottom, a victim of events.

I picked up the bag; it was cool to the touch, a faint sweat on it from the cool poly-box it had arrived in, the box now in the back of my car.

Red Blood Cells it proclaimed in large letters; O Rh Positive, with a barcode. The contents felt thick and glutinous as they moved around under my fingers. It was my blood in there, taken a week ago at a special session. That was important. There were two tubes leading from the bag, one with a small tap arrangement. Taking a last look at the bedroom I opened it and squirted about half of the blood onto the bed, making a large irregular stain.

It’s true what they say, a little blood makes a lot of mess, the dark red liquid pooled on the bedding and sank into the mattress. Moving backwards I let the blood drip from the tube in a rough line toward the door. Moving quickly I dripped and splashed blood all the way down the stairs and to the front door.

As I passed each room along the stone hallway I saw that they had all been ransacked, I grinned, that had been more enjoyment, a primeval feeling of exultation in destruction, part of all of us. Even though it was my stuff; my memories I had really let myself go. There were no neighbours to hear and I had made a lot of noise.

By the time I had backed out of the porch and onto the gravel there was little of the liquid left in the bag. I squeezed the last of it out and took the bag to my car, putting it into the poly-box in the trunk.

Now I just had to finish scene-setting.

I went back upstairs and into the bedroom. I grabbed a towel from the en-suite bathroom and making sure I stood in the blood splashes I roughly wiped the blood on the floor. I made it look like a body had been dragged from the bed and bumped down the stairs. There was even the odd bloody footprint and I made sure that some smears made it onto the walls. It took a few minutes and the blood was starting to congeal by the time I had made it to the front door.

Back outside I pulled off my shoes, the ones with the distinctive tread and bagged them next to the poly-box. There was a pair of trainers on the back seat and I hopped around while I put them on, gravel stuck to one sock and made me wince when I put weight on the foot, I sorted that out and took a last look around.

My home for the past year looked serene in the early morning light, the door was ajar and the trail of red led inside. I glimpsed my face in the mirror as I settled into the driving seat, I was smiling, part one had been completed; I was dead and horribly so. I just had to dispose of a few things and part two could begin. I started the engine and drove away.

© Richard Dee 2016

***

Thanks for such a generous blog Richard! Fabulous stuff. Thank you for taking the time to put it together for us.

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny x

So you want to be a writer

So you want to be a writer.

8 questions it’s helpful to ask before you start.

Who are you writing for?

Yourself, friends, family…

What are you writing for?

Money, fun, to make a point, to leave something of yourself behind after your death, because you simply have to write?

So – you’ve decided to take the plunge, now you need to ask…

What genre are you going to write?

Crime, romance, paranormal, steampunk, fantasy, erotica, contemporary fiction, goths, thrillers….the list is huge- and expanding all the time.

Which age group/gender are you targeting?

Adults? Teenagers? Children? Men? Women? Everyone?

Let’s get practical!

Where will you write?

At home, in the local café, the library, or a hired office?

What medium will you chose?

Paper, computer, tablet, phone, dictation?

Will you approach an agent, a publisher, or self publish?

And- most boringly practical of all- can you manage your own marketing?

Don’t forget if you don’t market your writing, then all your hard work will have been wasted. No one will know your book exists if you don’t wave your flag! So, love it r hate, you will need to get to grips with social media.

***

Happy questioning!

Jenny xx

 

 

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