Ask the Author: Decima Blake
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Decima Blake
On a mild spring evening some years ago, in a remote northern Lake District village, I finished my glass of wine and checked the time by a grandfather clock. The historic pub in which I sat had served a wonderful dish of wild trout and chips.
"We must come here again," I said to my (now ex) boyfriend who had booked the tiny flint cottage that stood some thirty minutes' walk away. Sadly, the holiday cottage was a dive with dilapidated furnishings which protruded horsehair, a jammed patio door, a fireplace covered in smuts and an antiquated kitchen and bathroom that needed a thorough clean before they were usable. A room at the pub with a full English breakfast would have been a much better idea.
We set off along the windy lane that led downhill into silence broken only by our clumpy boots and our voices. Pastureland reached out toward distant fells and somewhere, strangely out of sight, there was a church which had an old, clanging bell that had woken us the night before.
Our cottage was one of four in a quaint terrace, tucked away off the lane through a narrow entrance that we had missed on our first drive to it. We had suspected the other cottages were vacant, awaiting visitors in the school holidays and the warmer months.
Twenty minutes into the walk the conversation had ended and we were watching the sun slip away and the lane lose its glow. Ahead of us we saw a figure further down the hill; a broad man walking along with a limp. His clothes were baggy and ill-defined. We were catching him up until we saw the very large pitchfork he held over his shoulder.
It seemed a strange item to be carrying so late in the day, but perhaps that was just the reaction of those who grow up in towns and have exposed themselves to too many murder mysteries?
We plodded behind him at some distance, only gaining pace as we neared the approach to our destination. He took a sharp turn to the cottages, to my horror. Bolder than me, my boyfriend followed his lead and into the driveway we went.
The man, his exact age unclear given his unkempt shoulder-length hair and tatty, smock-shirted, medieval attire, was entering the cottage next to ours.
"Evening," my boyfriend called to him.
An unfriendly, somewhat wary look was flashed our way, followed by a grunt. Pitchfork still over his shoulder, he shut the door behind himself and disappeared into the darkness of the cottage. We saw no more of the mysterious neighbour thereafter.
"We must come here again," I said to my (now ex) boyfriend who had booked the tiny flint cottage that stood some thirty minutes' walk away. Sadly, the holiday cottage was a dive with dilapidated furnishings which protruded horsehair, a jammed patio door, a fireplace covered in smuts and an antiquated kitchen and bathroom that needed a thorough clean before they were usable. A room at the pub with a full English breakfast would have been a much better idea.
We set off along the windy lane that led downhill into silence broken only by our clumpy boots and our voices. Pastureland reached out toward distant fells and somewhere, strangely out of sight, there was a church which had an old, clanging bell that had woken us the night before.
Our cottage was one of four in a quaint terrace, tucked away off the lane through a narrow entrance that we had missed on our first drive to it. We had suspected the other cottages were vacant, awaiting visitors in the school holidays and the warmer months.
Twenty minutes into the walk the conversation had ended and we were watching the sun slip away and the lane lose its glow. Ahead of us we saw a figure further down the hill; a broad man walking along with a limp. His clothes were baggy and ill-defined. We were catching him up until we saw the very large pitchfork he held over his shoulder.
It seemed a strange item to be carrying so late in the day, but perhaps that was just the reaction of those who grow up in towns and have exposed themselves to too many murder mysteries?
We plodded behind him at some distance, only gaining pace as we neared the approach to our destination. He took a sharp turn to the cottages, to my horror. Bolder than me, my boyfriend followed his lead and into the driveway we went.
The man, his exact age unclear given his unkempt shoulder-length hair and tatty, smock-shirted, medieval attire, was entering the cottage next to ours.
"Evening," my boyfriend called to him.
An unfriendly, somewhat wary look was flashed our way, followed by a grunt. Pitchfork still over his shoulder, he shut the door behind himself and disappeared into the darkness of the cottage. We saw no more of the mysterious neighbour thereafter.
Decima Blake
Holding your completed manuscript which represents all the time, enjoyment and hard work that you've put into its creation.
The completed manuscript also holds the excitement of what will come next - publication, marketing and finding out what readers think to it. There is also the anticipation of having time to embark on writing your next book!
The completed manuscript also holds the excitement of what will come next - publication, marketing and finding out what readers think to it. There is also the anticipation of having time to embark on writing your next book!
Decima Blake
Writing my DS Hingston series involves a lot of research and planning. I make sure I choose subjects and places to research that already interest me. My research inspires me further and helps me identify clues and themes to build into my novel.
I'm inspired by the process of plotting out an exciting investigation, creating suspense and by creating vivid scenes and characters that lend themselves well to descriptive writing.
I'm inspired by the process of plotting out an exciting investigation, creating suspense and by creating vivid scenes and characters that lend themselves well to descriptive writing.
Decima Blake
I read through my most recent chapters to get back into the storyline. The characters come back to life and this allows me to move the story on. I also review my chapter outlines to remind me where I am going next. If I decide I still need time to think, I go for a walk to relax.
Decima Blake
If you need to research anything for your novel, complete this before you start writing. I did this for "Hingston's Box" to check whether the concept was workable and if so, exactly what time period and geographical locations were appropriate. I visited all locations in the book to get a true feel for the settings and to take photographs to remind me of details I may otherwise have forgotten.
Plan out your novel so that you are confident where you are going with it. For "Hingston's Box" I wrote a couple of sentences for every chapter to plot the order of events.
Plan out your novel so that you are confident where you are going with it. For "Hingston's Box" I wrote a couple of sentences for every chapter to plot the order of events.
Decima Blake
The inspiration for "Hingston's Box" came whilst reading through a file at work. It was just another file, similar to many I'd read before. I thought how it would be exciting if something could appear in a file and solve a mystery from the past, and I knew there and then I wanted to write a novel around that plot.
Decima Blake
I'm currently writing my second DS Hingston novel. This new investigation begins in December 2012, a month after "Hingston's Box", the first book in the series, concluded.
Chiswick-based Hingston joins the Murder Squad to investigate the mysterious deaths of several random members of the public who appear to be connected to a missing 17-year-old schoolgirl. Hingston, DCI Smythe and Remi are pulled into an unexpected spiral of events.
Chiswick-based Hingston joins the Murder Squad to investigate the mysterious deaths of several random members of the public who appear to be connected to a missing 17-year-old schoolgirl. Hingston, DCI Smythe and Remi are pulled into an unexpected spiral of events.
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