David W. Robinson's Blog: Always Writing, page 15

Caught Snapping

I read an interesting piece on the BBC yesterday concerning photography and how we’re all potential David Baileys while we have our smartphones with built-in, high-resolution cameras.

The photographer, Grant Scott, has some sound advice, amongst which is as you wander around, forget about composition. Instead, have your camera at the ready and take pictures of those things which catch your eye. As it happens, Grant, I’ve been doing that for years, and here are half a dozen results, which as well as demonstrating my crap photographic skills, might tell you something about my state of mind/being.

This is an actual yard in Whitby North Yorkshire. But it pales into insignificance at the mind-boggling possibilities behind…

Which again is a real location, this time in St Ives, cornwall.

Next we have a genuine sign outside a shop in Perranporth, also in Cornwall. With my obsessions I just had to have a picture of this.

A spelling error now, in Mablethorpe, Lincolnshire. A poor photograph, taken surreptitiously, and considering the amount of work which goes into making these things, I didn’t have the heart to tell the guy that the word “shimmering” has two Ms.

Another couple of spelling errors (both circled) caught my wandering eye. This time they were in Paphos, Cyprus, so given that English was probably the printer’s second language, I suppose they had some excuse.

And finally, a tree in Icod, Tenerife but not the famous, 800-year-old Dragon Tree. Frankly, this reminded me of something from Quatermass.

You can read Grant Scott’s original article on the BBC website HERE

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While I’m here, let me remind you that I am giving away a bundle of e-books for Christmas and the New Year. Check out the details HERE.

It’s That Time of Year

When everyone is chucking their money about, spending billions on gifts for themselves, for their loved ones, even for those they hate (such as the boss).

I make no bones about my favourite types of gift: reading matter, books. In that case, if you’re giving (or getting) an e-reader, tablet, phone or PC/laptop this Christmas, here are a few suggestions, all of which can be read on such electronic oojahs.

Tracy’s Hot Mail.

Two brilliantly funny volumes from the pen (or keyboard) of Trevor Belshaw, follow Tracy’s adventures she disseminates all the latest gossip to her friend Emma.

Tracy’s Hot Mail and Tracy’s Celebrity Hot Mail available from all the best e-tailers, including Amazon and Smashwords.

And if humour is your thing, how about

Quintessentially Quirky Tales from Iain Pattison

The master of the pun turns out three volumes of short, sharp stories to tickle your funny bone. Another set of mind-blowing volumes to take you out of yourself and into the world of the absurd.

The QQT volumes are available from Amazon and Smashwords

If the thriller is more your kind of thing, then look no further than

The Jack Calder Series

Four action-packed volumes from Seumas Gallacher starring ex-SAS man, Jack Calder as he jets around the world on the trail of the bad guys.

The Jack Calder novels are available from Amazon and Smashwords.

Hot on the heels of Mr Calder comes

The Avenging Cat Series

Written by Nik Morton, follow the adventures of Catherine Vibrissae as she wreaks her vengeance on those who have wrong her.

The Avenging Cat Novels are available on Amazon and Smashwords.

Prefer crime? Well here are a brace of hard-boiled cops for you, beginning with:

DI Paolo Storey

From the pen of Frances di Plino, Storey is a man with a mission, to clean up the filth from the streets of Bradchester. Dark themes, no punches pulled, this series is a must for all fans of gritty crime thrillers.

The four Paolo Storey novels can be found on Amazon and Smashwords

And if you prefer an Irish angle, then check out:

The DCI Craig Series

From Catriona King comes whole heap of tales from the casebook of DCI Craig. Set predominantly in Belfast, this is a cop who is determined to let nothing stand in the way of truth and justice.

The DCI Craig series can be found on Amazon and Smashwords.

Prefer cosier crime? Then may I suggest?

Libby Sarjeant

From Lesley Cookman, it’s a long time since I read the first Libby, but I was hooked instantly, and there are now about fifteen (maybe more) in the series. No blood and gore, just a good, solid mystery for you to unravel.

Libby Sarjeant can be found on Amazon

And if we’re talking cosy crime, may I suggest:

The Sanford 3rd Age Club Mysteries

Can’t remember who wrote them, but it might have been me. Fourteen Furtive Felons and the only hope of bringing them to justice lies with Joe Murray and his pals in the Sanford 3rd Age Club.

You can learn more about the Sanford 3rd Age Club Mysteries. HERE

Reading the Phone

You won’t be surprised when I tell you that the mobile phone is likely to be one of the most popular items given as Christmas gifts this year.

I switched to a smartphone in July. And it was nothing to do with falling for the hype. It was simple economy. The company I’m with offered me two contract phones, one for me, one for Her Indoors, and saved me £70 a year on the deal I already had, which was for my phone only. Plus, it saved me an estimated £80 a year topping up my missus’ PAYG. Two phones, two contracts, £150 a year in my pocket. Can’t go wrong.

And I haven’t. I’m very happy with the deal. And I still haven’t fallen for all the bullplop of smartphones. I don’t need apps to tell me the shortest route to the local convenience store, or where to find a packet of Weetabix when I get there.

But it has seen one major change in my behaviour. I now read e-books on it. My poor old Kindle is all but redundant. I have both Kindle and Kobo apps on the phone and I use both to read. More than that, I find it easier on the eye than the Kindle, but that may be because MY Kindle is an original Paperwhite. No backlight and a grey-ish screen which can be difficult to read, even with enlarged text, in poor lighting.

Not so the Sony Xperia. The screen is as bright as I need it to be, I can still enlarge the text if I’m struggling, and the covers are in colour. If there is a downside, it’s that the phone battery doesn’t last as long as the Paperwhite’s, but what the hell, whenever we go away, I always have the charger with me, and on that point, the phone charges a lot faster than the Kindle.

So if you’re giving or receiving a smartphone or tablet this Christmas, don’t forget to get your reading matter.

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A Murder for Christmas is published by Crooked Cat and available for the Kindle from Amazon and in all other formats from Smashwords.

Bumped Off in Benidorm is published by David Robinson and available for the Kindle from Amazon and in all other formats from Smashwords.

Help. It’s Her Indoors’ Birthday and I’m Missing One Pipe

Today is my wife’s birthday. I can’t tell you how old she is because, although I may not have much of a sex life, I’d prefer the tackle to be still in place on the offchance that the opportunity presents itself.

If you’re wondering why there is a picture of a tumble dryer on our landing, have patience. I will get there.

I never know what to buy for her for birthdays. She never used the Bosch hammer drill I bought two years ago, and the new spark plugs for the car didn’t go down well the year before that. So this year I asked what she wanted.

First it was a new cross and chain. She’s more religious than me. She must be. She’s always saying, “How in the name of Almighty God did I end up married to you?”

The old chain broke and the cross disappeared somewhere in Benidorm. I complained, of course. “That was £3.99 well spent,” I said. But she insisted on a new one. Sadly, Woolworths as a High Street emporium, is long gone. It eventually cost me just under a ton, and again I complained. I have plenty of bits of wood to make a cross from and I could have got a yard of chain from B+Q for less than a fiver, but no, it had to be gold not mild steel.

Still this was not enough. She’s been whining that she struggles to dry the washing. I can take a hint. So as a surprise birthday present, I bought her a new clothes line and prop. It didn’t go down well… actually, it did. When the line snapped, the prop fell down and brought the washing with it.

Eventually, she pulled one of the dirtiest, most underhand tricks known to man. “I’m going to save you a hundred and fifty pounds,” she told me, and pointed out a tumble dryer online, priced at £110.

“How’s that saving me one and half?” I asked.

With a couple of deft clicks of the mouse, she landed on another tumble dryer, but this was £268. “That’s the one I really want,” she told me.

Now do you see why the picture is there?

At this point, I’m another £110 out of pocket and the bloke has just delivered it. Free delivery, the website said, but that was to the ground floor. It’s just cost me a fiver to get them to take it upstairs.

It’s one of those where you have to stick the pipe out of the window to take the steam away. Not that Her Indoors will admit to being a cheapskate (or married to an even cheaper skate). She’s going to tell the neighbours we’ve turned the spare room into a sauna.

Imagine my irritation, then, when we unpacked it and found there was no pipe. Only a dark tunnel where one was to be fitted. I’m sure James Bond had to crawl down something like this in Dr No.

Straight on the phone, I asked, “Where’s my fucking pipe?”

The answer was a bit snappy. “If you read the description online you’ll see that the fucking pipe is extra and you didn’t fucking order it.”

“How much?” I demanded, ignoring the invective.

“A tenner and since it’s coming separately, there’ll be another fiver for delivery.”

I told them they could stick the pipe up their pipe and ordered it from somewhere else for six notes, plus two quid delivery. It’ll be here by Wednesday.

By now, I’m trying to recover from life-threatening credit card surgery, and she’s playing with the new toy, creating clouds of steam in the spare room.

“All I really need now,” she said coming downstairs and wiping the condensed water from her glasses, “are some new clothes to test it on.”

I was busy looking for the cyanide when she advised me to look on the bright side. “When you change your underpants, they’ll be washed, dried and ironed in less than two hours.”

Which is fine, but what do I do with the pipe-less tumble dryer between Christmases?

Voices: The Best I’ve Ever Written?

I met with Iain Pattison in Manchester yesterday and during the course of a long conversation, we inevitably discussed our individual works.

I’ve always felt, and Iain agreed, that Voices is the best thing I’ve ever written, yet for some inexplicable reason, it doesn’t sell. I’m embarrassed that it is often compared favourably to the works of James Herbert and Stephen King.

It has only eight Amazon reviews, but all of them are five-star. In his comment on the work, reviewer Richard Hardie said ‘This is real horror at its best, not because it’s full of blood and gore (there’s plenty) but because you really believe it could be happening.’

But I’ll let you form your own judgement. Here is a long extract from very early in the book. College lecturer, Chris Deacon is on his lunch break with the daunting prospect of a tedious staff meeting ahead of him. It’s a perfectly normal, September day… so far.

I entered the refectory and to my dismay, found it jam-packed. Joining the end of a long queue, I thought about Spinners Shopping Mall, 200 yards away. It would be so easy to go there, pick up a sandwich at Carpenters Lite-Bite, then sit and enjoy the sunshine on the High Street.

The air in the refectory hung with sweat. Extractor fans, suspended from the ceiling, worked overtime, trying to suck out the heat, their constant hum drowned by the clatter of knife, fork and conversation.

I glanced along the queue, and then to my left where the vending machines offered chilled soft drinks, crisps and confectionery. Brian Richmond was busy feeding coins into one. I was tempted. I could grab myself a packet of ready salted, a Snickers bar and a can of Pepsi, and sit on the college lawns, soak up the sun and carry out a little people watching … except that most of our people were in the cafeteria.

Students crowded most of the room. In the rear, right corner were a few tables reserved for staff, and they, too, were full. Assuming I was served this side of one o’clock I’d still be hard pressed to find a seat.

Jenny Morton and Sally Brent passed me, their heads bent over a carrier bag, peering in as if they were checking on some living creature. Sally’s eyes met mine. She nudged Jenny and they both smiled. I smiled back. I felt like a father figure to them. In my classes, they enjoyed my tales of the pre-microchip era when arithmetic was instilled by rote, rather than at the touch of a calculator keypad.

The queue shuffled forward. In front of me stood a young man dressed in a grey pinstripe which looked too hot for the unexpected sunshine. If he was a member of staff, I didn’t know him. He kept checking his watch, every glance accompanied by an impatient sigh. Not a member of staff. Even faced with a general meeting in less than an hour, no tutor would give a toss about the time. I guessed him to be a council employee, probably on an inspection visit. Judging from the frequency with which he followed the time he was due back at the civic centre. Either that or he, too, wanted to get out and soak up the ultraviolet.

Looking past him, at the head of the queue I could see a redhead sorting through her purse, seeking something smaller than a twenty. Dressed in a purple skirt and matching jacket, she was another body I didn’t recognise. Probably a mature student. She counted coins into her hand, in that curious manner all women have. Peer into the purse, snatch the coin between finger and thumb, drop it into the palm, pause to count how much is in hand, then repeat the process until the sums add up. Her efforts did nothing to appease Grey Pinstripe’s angst.

On a table by the windows, Pauline Jackson was holding court with her new baby. Pauline was about twenty years old, and I recalled she had been heavily pregnant with the child towards the end of the last academic year. Azi Rahman sat perched on the windowsill behind her, his feet resting on the back of her chair. Steve Jessop and Emma Oates, two of our longest serving security officers, ambled towards them and motioned for Azi to get down. While he joked with Steve, Emma made a fuss of the baby.

Grey Pinstripe became more exasperated by the second, and there were still several others between him and the counter. Pauline’s baby began acting up. Emma tried to soothe the child while Pauline searched through her bag, presumably looking for his dummy or bottle.

I looked to the vending machine and tossed the options again. Snack and soft drink, or something more substantial and a cup of tea? Jan usually prepared only a light meal on Friday evening. It would have to be something more than crisps, chocolate and Pepsi.

Casting my eyes round the room once more, I saw Brian, one bag still on his shoulder, the other placed on a table full of students with whom he was talking. He drank from a can of Fanta and looked around. Our stares met and he looked away. There was something wrong with his face; a deep frown etched into his brow and a furtive fret in his eyes. Electronics students were always worried about something. It probably came from too many hours studying circuitry.

Four members of staff gathered in the centre of the aisle, stopping to chat. A cleaner came round them pushing her trolley, eyes everywhere, looking for litter on the tables.

Richmond hurried past, dashing out of the dining hall. Through a gap between the Chatters I could see his backpack left on the table. The cleaner made to pick the bag up.

Worried, bag left behind, in a hurry to get out. I thought about all those terrorism meetings and workshops where they had spelled out the vital signs. Worried, bag left behind, in a hurry to get out. My sluggish brain made the connection. Alarm bells rang in my head. I swivelled to look for Brian. Worried, bag left behind, in a hurry to get out.

I opened my mouth to shout a warning. The sweep hand on the clock above the service counter reached the top of the hour. The minute hand moved one last time to register 12:45. There was a flash of light and an almighty explosion.

A ball of flame expanded in all directions. With it came the noise of screams, of glass shattering as the windows disappeared, followed by an awful rending of metal. The triple extractors fell from their mountings and crashed to the tables below where they exploded into a thousand pieces. One of the blades embedded itself in the back of Grey Pinstripe’s head. He fell, one hand clawing at the back of his neck. I watched the light go out in his eyes.

At the same time, a wall of superheated air hit my lungs. The blast threw me back, slamming me into the vending machines. Something bloody, came my way. I had time to register it as the head of one of the Chatters before I ducked. It struck me a glancing blow on the forehead and my knees buckled.

Dizziness swimming around me, I took in the scene of carnage. Azi and the window where he was perched were gone. The emergency exit had been blown open and at least two students were hurled through it. Pauline was unconscious, one arm laying several feet from the rest of her. In his pram, the baby had a large piece of metal projecting from his chest. Steve Jessop had been thrown towards the service counter, where he lay unconscious, blood streaming from numerous cuts on his face. Emma stared down at a large piece of extractor fan filling the valley between her breasts. As I watched, she keeled over and lay still. Purse Woman lay strewn across Steve’s midriff, her legs slashed to ribbons. Her face was turned my way, but her eyes focussed on the bloody mess that had been Grey Pinstripe’s head.

There was nothing left of the students or the table where Richmond had left his bag. The cleaner’s lower legs were still on the floor. They were several feet apart and the rest of her had been torn from them. All around the central blast area lay the charred remains of what had been people a few moments ago.

Glancing to my left, I could see a counter hand spread-eagled across the hobs, her clothing and hair on fire. I prayed she was already dead. At the staff tables, several were already beyond help; one of the survivors was trying to revive the woman next to him.

Smoke and fumes filled my lungs, I tasted the coppery essence of blood on my lips, my head hurt front and back. I ran a hand across my face. It came away covered in blood. I don’t know whether it was mine or someone else’s.

It seemed as if time had come to standstill. I felt as if I was staring at this horror for minutes, but it was probably less than two seconds.

As the dazed survivors came to their senses, they ran, some making for the emergency exit, the rest, from this side of the room, rushing for the double doors to my right, and the safety of reception beyond them.

The explosion had melted the ceiling tiles and caused a brief flare; enough to kick in what was left of the sprinkler system. Rain poured on the bloodied and charred floor tiles, turning them into a gooey, slippery mess of blood, flesh and water. At the head of the panicked crowd, Marcia Reardon, a tutor from the Languages Department, slipped and went down. The mob trampled her. I saw her tongue loll out before she disappeared under the thundering feet.

I flattened myself to the vending machine as the crowd massed towards the door. A young girl was forced into the corner. She screamed as the herd crushed in on her and pressed her flat against the wall. Then her screams stopped and her eyes faded.

They crushed me too, forcing me back against the unyielding machinery. They were moving to the right. I fought my way to the left, my legs turning to jelly, strength wilting. The tiniest of gaps opened around me and I began to go down.

STAY ON YOUR FEET.

My brain shouted the order, but it sounded to me as a voice echoing around my head.

There was a short section of wall jutting out on the left, partitioning the vending machines from the service counter. I moved towards it, away from the doors where others were screaming for help. I heaved in a huge breath of the supercharged air. The heat, the poisonous mix of gases given off by a combination of the explosive and molten polystyrene tiles hurt my lungs. I made the gap by the tiny partition wall, and shrank into it.

Amongst the writhing mass of humanity desperate to be out of the building, I saw Jenny Morton again. Tears streaked her blood-spattered face.

“Mr Deacon!” She screamed. I reached out, grabbed her hand, pulled her to me and hugged her into the corner, turning my back on the crowd to protect her.

With Jenny sobbing, the air filled with screams, cries and shouts of the injured, I felt a rising dread, which threatened to swamp me and force me into the panicked mob, let them carry me off into mayhem and be crushed with them. My knees buckled again and I fell to them. Someone stood on my right ankle and I let out an agonised howl.

Jenny clung to me. An elbow hit me on the back of the head. Gripped by blind rage, I lashed out with my fist and someone collapsed alongside me. In seconds, he was smothered underfoot.

STAY ON YOUR FEET.

I tried to stand again. A lance of pain shot through my ankle.

I’m about to die, I’m about to die, I’m about to die. The thought hammered at my dimming consciousness.

My head spun, blackness threatened to engulf me. Terrified out of my mind, I forced Jenny further into our corner, and pressed my face obscenely close to her. She wept and I began to cry too. A vision of Jan came to me. It was as if I were crying for her to come and help me, come and get me out of this insanity.

***

So what do you think? I regret I’m unable to open the blog for comments, because I get too much hassle from lazy spammers, but you’re welcome to comment on any of the social media posts where you may have spotted this post.

Voices is published by Crooked Cat and available for the Kindle from Amazon UK and Amazon Worldwide and in all formats from Smashwords and other, good etailers. It’s also available in paperback ISBN: 1908910429 from Amazon.

The Great Christmas Giveaway

If you came to this site via the home page, you’ll know that I’m giving away not one but four e-books in the run up to Christmas. Well, it doesn’t stop there. As of today, until some time in the New Year, I’m giving away yet another e-book, Christmas Parties.

No strings attached. You don’t have to vote for me in the next X-Factor series, mainly because I’m not likely to be in the next X-Factor series.

All you have to do to get this short, sweet and (hopefully) funny book is go to the Christmas Parties page and choose your format(s).

And then enjoy.

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While I’m here, met me remind you that I am giving away a bundle of e-books for Christmas and the New Year. Check out the details HERE.

This post is mirrored on http://midthorpe.dwrob.co.uk/

 

Burned, Bitten and Back Home

It’s not often I’m glad to be back after a holiday, but I am this time. Lanzarote was warm and sunny during the day, but an inhospitable north-ish wind, made it bloody cold of an evening. There was entertainment of sorts in a few of the bars, and the holiday apartment was fine.

I wasn’t.

Prior to setting off, we’d had two days of stress, stress, stress, and it wasn’t helped by airport procedures. I managed to wind down a bit during the flight, but it all blew up again when we got to the holiday complex and I couldn’t hear the directions and instructions the reception clerk gave for reaching our apartment, and Her Indoors didn’t even listen. We wandered up the street to the annexe where we were staying and found the gates locked. Neither of us knew the code for the lock, so we couldn’t get in. I couldn’t find the receptionist again, and I couldn’t find any other way in. Her Indoors was moaning and whining, I’d already hauled two suitcases and backpack a hundred and fifty yards up a short but steep hill, my temper snapped, and I lost the plot completely in the middle of street.

Fortunately one of the attendants inside the place heard the noise, and let us in. She also gave us the code for the gate, and when I had calmed down, I gave the reception a quieter piece of my mind.

After such a bad start, the only way was up. Right? Wrong.

Two months ago, my calves got badly burned and bitten in Benidorm. My own fault. I should have use sunblock and insect repellent. I never thought about it this time, and again, I didn’t use sun lotion or insect repellent, and the damage hadn’t had time to properly heal.

By Wednesday, my calves were badly burned again and I’d been bitten so often, the local mozzies had me on their list as a gourmet eatery.

The pharmacies were shut by the time we got on the sea front, but some rip-off bastard sold me a tub of aloe vera ointment, which mentioned mosqueta on the label, which he said would repel mosquitoes and other insects. In fact, it does nothing of the kind, and he was going to get a full, thermonuclear blast the following morning. Luckily for him, the missus can use this kind of moisturiser, so he got off with nothing worse than an abrupt ‘piss off’ when he collared me on the seafront the next day.

Eventually, the local pharmacy sold me some antihistamine ointment which helped, but even using that, supplemented with lashings of after-sun lotion to cool my skin, and generous helpings of Germolene to heal the bites, the pain and itching drove me mad, and made it impossible for me to sleep.

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By Thursday, while Her Indoors was enjoying the break, I was ready for home and we still had three days to go.

And now we are home. The bites are healing, the skin has cooled, but it looks irreparably damaged, and I’m glad of the cold, miserable, British weather, even if it is only because it keeps the irritation under control.

One last thing. The lack of sleep was good for my creativity. I must have written half a novel in those seven sleepless nights, and now I’m gonna start shifting the files over.

***

You can keep abreast of blogs, news, learn about forthcoming titles, take advantage of special offers, by subscribing to DW’s newsletter, and when you sign up, you’ll find a FREE copy of Trial by Fire waiting for you to download in whatever format you choose.

I guarantee that you will not be spammed, your email address will not be passed to any third party, and you will receive, at the most, two emails per month.

The first newsletter is due out in early December. So what are you waiting for? The form is in the right hand sidebar. Sign up now and claim your FREE copy of Trial by Fire.

Spooky Goings On

There are strange disappearances in this house, and I think our spare bedroom is some kind of trans-dimensional portal.

By this time on Sunday we will be soaking up the Canary Islands sun and beer. But, as always, we first have to pack the cases and that is a logistical exercise which would tax Fedex’s finest brains.

It’s the wife’s fault. She understands the principles of two suitcases, but she cannot grasp the difference between kilograms and tonnes, so while I can get away with an outrageously priced, 5p Tesco carrier bag and pack in five minutes, getting her ready takes at least four attempts.

So off we went upstairs for a final assault on the cases, and I took with me my usual requirements: smoke, a cup of tea, an ashtray and the case-weighing scale (pictured below).

We pottered and primped, unloaded and reloaded, threw out the ironing board, and put in the hammer drill, and finally we were ready to weigh the cases.

But the scale had disappeared. We looked everywhere and couldn’t find it. We emptied the cases and refilled them and it was nowhere to be seen.

A curious state of affairs, and I needed a smoke to think about it. But now the ashtray had also disappeared.

I made my way downstairs where I discovered that the ashtray had reappeared on the table, but the scale was still missing. Going back up with the ashtray, I now learned that the missus had disappeared.

The reaction of most husbands would be panic, but I have to admit that before the worry could set in, my first thought was the amount I’ll save in Lanzarote next week on her beer, sweets, meals and perfume.

As it happens, she turned up, also downstairs digging into the cupboards, looking for the scale which we still couldn’t find.

At the time of writing the scale is still AWOL. I suspect it’s been nicked by some scroat in an alternate universe who is now trying to calculate how many smargolik his cases weigh before he sets off on his annual holiday to Mrodineb .

Either that or Her Indoors threw it in the dustbin because she didn’t know what it was.

***

Would you like to keep ahead of the news? Then subscribe to DW’s Newsletter. The first issue goes out when I get back from Lanzarote. And if you sign up, you’ll find there is a FREE copy of Trial by Fire, the 14th Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery, waiting for you to download in a format of your choice. Not a sample, but the whole book.

I guarantee you will not be spammed and your email address will not be passed on to any other party. But you will be entertained.

So what are you waiting for? The sign up form is in the right hand sidebar. Fill it in now, and once you confirm your subscription you’ will be direct to your FREE download of Trial by Fire.

A Slight Curve on the Sanford 3rd Age Club Mysteries

The last Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery, Trial by Fire, was published in August, and since then you’ve heard very little.

There were a number of reasons for this, not least of which were observations from regular readers that the tales were becoming repetitive, and that the background characters, particularly Brenda and Sheila, were not sufficiently involved. It was something I tried to address in Trial by Fire, and if nothing else, it caused me to take a step back and re-evaluate the series.

At the same time, I began to develop another series, the Midthorpe Mysteries, and I chose to self-publish these, rather than put them through Crooked Cat. I’ve said a number of times, and I make no apologies for repeating it, the decision to self-publish is not a reflection on Crooked Cat.

The truth is, the Midthorpe Mysteries are experimental in that while the amateur sleuth element is there, the mystery is subjugated in favour of the humour, and they are not cosy crime. Neither are they hard-boiled. There is a stronger sexual element, but it’s still not graphic, and neither is the violence, but the language is more reflective of modern society than one would expect to find in a cosy mystery.

I mentioned in my last post that I’ve had to deal with a range of personal issues which caused a great deal of distress, but that hiatus also gave me time to think about the way forward, and the Sanford 3rd Age Club Mysteries remain a part of my plans. (Did I hear a cheer or was it a groan?)

Joe & Co will be back some time in the New Year, but with a slight curve designed to take them in a different direction.

Heavily involved with Denise Latham, Joe will assist in her insurance investigations, which will doubtless bring him into more unexpected adventures, and he will need to call on the help of his friends, the members of the Sanford 3rd Age Club. Plans also include Sheila and Brenda investigating their own mysteries, with Joe taking a back seat as an advisor.

So if you’re a STAC fan, hold on to your hat. We will be back.

***

If you’re new to the Sanford 3rd Age Club Mysteries (or even if you’re dedicated follower) you can keep abreast of news, learn about forthcoming titles, take advantage of special offers, by subscribing to DW’s newsletter, and when you sign up, you’ll find a FREE copy of Trial by Fire waiting for you to download in whatever format you choose.

I guarantee that you will not be spammed, your email address will not be passed to any third party, and you will receive, at the most, two emails per month.

The first newsletter is due out in early December. So what are you waiting for? The form is in the right hand sidebar. Sign up now and claim your FREE copy of Trial by Fire.

Back With an Offer

I’m slowly getting around to rebuilding this site, and it’s time to update you. In a desperate effort to get organised, I’ve been running round in circles for the last few months, but I’m slowly getting there.

It’s necessary for me to keep my self-published work separate from my Crooked Cat titles, which is why I set up the alternative, Midthorpe Mysteries site. As if that’s not enough to drive me to distraction, I’m now in the process of setting up separate newsletters for the two sites.

You can learn about the Midthorpe one by cutting over there, so for now let’s talk about DW’s newsletter, which will concentrate on the Sanford 3rd Age Club Mysteries and the thrillers published by Crooked Cat. You’ll find the sign-up form on the right and repeated at the foot of this post.

So what do you get if you sign up?

Well, first you get a free copy of Trial by Fire, the 14th Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery, which you can download the moment you confirm your subscription. My thanks go to Crooked Cat for agreeing to this.

Next, you get an absolute guarantee that you will never be spammed and that your email address will never be passed to any third party under any circumstances.

You will receive, maximum, one newsletter per month and it will not be chock full of adverts. Instead there will be news on forthcoming titles, as well as the odd, humorous anecdotes from real life (my real life, which is quite boring), and occasional offers on specific books.

You will also be notified when I’m looking for pre-publication beta readers, which will give you the opportunity to grab titles before they’re actually out on sale, and the only stipulation will be to comment on them. These offers will be limited in number, and made of a first-come, first-served basis.

That’s DW’s newsletter. So what’s for the future.

The Sanford 3rd Age Club Mysteries will continue. Trial by Fire marked a slightly new direction for Joe and his pals of the Sanford 3rd Age Club. No they’re not going hard-boiled or graphic, but they will be more complex, and see greater involvement from the background characters.

I don’t only turn out cosy mysteries like the STACs. I also write gritty thrillers and I’ll be expanding that particular list. They take much longer to produce than the STAC Mysteries, and I’ve already begun work on the third Croft novel, working title Combarus, which will see the master hypnotist working with the armed forces, pitted against an unfathomable foe who appears to be even more skilled than Croft at controlling others.

Timescale? Haven’t a clue, but it won’t be much this side of late spring, early summer, 2016.

So, busy times ahead, and I’m looking forward to them with renewed vigour.

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Sign up to DW’s newsletter, and claim your FREE copy of Trial by Fire the 14th Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery from David W Robinson.

We guarantee you will not be spammed and your email address will never be passed on to a third party… But you will be entertained.

You’ll find the subscription form at the top right of the sidebar.