Lissa Oliver's Blog, page 2
February 12, 2022
The Character Challenge 3!
Pete Allen Challenge 3 – the relationship between the crew
So basically I had no relationship, the wife had just left what I thought was a happy ten-year marriage. Acting the flirt suddenly lost its shine for me. I would never in a million years have described journalist Westie as a friend. I spent most days dodging him and his bloody tape recorder, looking for tips or a scoop. Say one wrong word and the media could destroy your career overnight. But turns out, he’s pretty decent, behind all that dirt-digging. He was the obvious choice for help, when I needed a bit of dirt-digging done on whoever was trying to blackmail me. Scared the heck out of me, confiding in him, but, hey, he came up trumps, was there for me. A true mate, in the end. And Sophie? Jees, I never in a million years imagined I’d be in with a shot with a girl like her. I never imagined I’d ever be single again, for one thing. But Sophie just seems way beyond my league. Yet, like Westie, if you open your heart and look for help, she’ll be there for you all the way. I tried to play it cool, not press her. Being the gentleman bloody hurts, though; watching her from afar in that cold distant land of Best Friend. Sometimes I just wanted to tell her. In the end, when I did, guess what? She’d been suffering the same! Bloody idiots, the pair of us! Let that be a lesson to you – just come out and say what’s on your mind and to hell with the risks. Unless Westie’s around with that bloody tape recorder, of course!
Gala Day
So basically I had no relationship, the wife had just left what I thought was a happy ten-year marriage. Acting the flirt suddenly lost its shine for me. I would never in a million years have described journalist Westie as a friend. I spent most days dodging him and his bloody tape recorder, looking for tips or a scoop. Say one wrong word and the media could destroy your career overnight. But turns out, he’s pretty decent, behind all that dirt-digging. He was the obvious choice for help, when I needed a bit of dirt-digging done on whoever was trying to blackmail me. Scared the heck out of me, confiding in him, but, hey, he came up trumps, was there for me. A true mate, in the end. And Sophie? Jees, I never in a million years imagined I’d be in with a shot with a girl like her. I never imagined I’d ever be single again, for one thing. But Sophie just seems way beyond my league. Yet, like Westie, if you open your heart and look for help, she’ll be there for you all the way. I tried to play it cool, not press her. Being the gentleman bloody hurts, though; watching her from afar in that cold distant land of Best Friend. Sometimes I just wanted to tell her. In the end, when I did, guess what? She’d been suffering the same! Bloody idiots, the pair of us! Let that be a lesson to you – just come out and say what’s on your mind and to hell with the risks. Unless Westie’s around with that bloody tape recorder, of course!
Gala Day
February 11, 2022
Pete Allen Challenge 2 !
Challenge 2 – significance of name
I shouldn’t really tell you this, but actually I was named after someone. I won’t say who. There was this young author who would hang out at the races and spend every free minute writing. What you writing, he’d ask? A story? Am I in it? Can I be in it? Write one about me! He was a bit of a flash sod, but only a bit. The author-girl calls me a caricature of him and his name was slightly borrowed for mine. But I get the last laugh – I’m now the hero of a story, not him!
Gala Day
I shouldn’t really tell you this, but actually I was named after someone. I won’t say who. There was this young author who would hang out at the races and spend every free minute writing. What you writing, he’d ask? A story? Am I in it? Can I be in it? Write one about me! He was a bit of a flash sod, but only a bit. The author-girl calls me a caricature of him and his name was slightly borrowed for mine. But I get the last laugh – I’m now the hero of a story, not him!
Gala Day
Character Challenge 1 !
You may remember I entered the fictitious Pete Allen into a Challenge between 12 authors, who each nominated a character or teams of characters. I chose Pete, from my thriller Gala Day, because he's nothing if not a tryer and it seems I chose wisely! Had you asked Dominic from Sainte Bastien you would certainly have received nothing more than a dirty look. Only children have favourite colours. Marcel, from Chantilly Dawns, would have been happy to oblige, but doesn't have a particular favourite. Pete, however, is never short on answers!
Challenge 1 – Favourite Colour, in 100 words!
Favourite colour? Is Naked a colour?! Flesh tone? Only kidding! At the moment it’s pastels, they’re in right now. There are guys who don’t feel comfortable in pastels, but, hey, you’re talking to a bloke who has to go out in public six times a day wearing all sorts of exotic colours! You should see what some racehorse owners choose to distinguish their horse in a race – and I have to swagger out trying to look cool while modelling a flamingo-pink and flaming orange silk blouse over white riding breeches! We call them “jackets”, the uniform of my trade – jockey.
Challenge 1 – Favourite Colour, in 100 words!
Favourite colour? Is Naked a colour?! Flesh tone? Only kidding! At the moment it’s pastels, they’re in right now. There are guys who don’t feel comfortable in pastels, but, hey, you’re talking to a bloke who has to go out in public six times a day wearing all sorts of exotic colours! You should see what some racehorse owners choose to distinguish their horse in a race – and I have to swagger out trying to look cool while modelling a flamingo-pink and flaming orange silk blouse over white riding breeches! We call them “jackets”, the uniform of my trade – jockey.
January 20, 2022
The Character Challenge!
I received an interesting invitation this week, to enter one of my characters into a "challenge". Twelve authors (so far) will nominate a character from one of their novels to enter the challenge. The characters will face a series of tests and a winner will eventually be named. Your guess is as good as mine, but seemingly this is the third year of the challenge and I'm intrigued!
I know nothing of the challenge, so the first challenge for me was who to nominate? Marcel was never going to be a contender. He failed to cope with the challenges I threw at him in Chantilly Dawns, his collapse being the whole point of the story. His pal Serge would have coped better, but he'd go at this like a bull in a china shop, act first, think later if at all! I love Serge, but he's not the man for a challenge.
Within Sainte Bastien I could choose Dominic, who I know wouldn't be interested and wouldn't bother himself to compete. More than capable, less than dependable. His father Nick wouldn't have the time or patience. Loss of temper would surely ensue.
Which leaves Pete Allen, and no better man for the job. That was, after all, what he was created to do - to take the bull by the horns in Gala Day and become a hero, even though he's far from heroic and not afraid to admit to being scared. He doesn't let that put him off, though. Level-headed, proven in combat and with a secret enjoyment of acting the hero, if truth be told.
If you were invited, which of your own created characters, or favourite literary characters, would you nominate for a mystery challenge? Will it be a game of wits? Brawn and muscle? Or both?
Pete, I don't know what I'm letting you in for, but I know I can depend upon you to win! Let battle commence!
I know nothing of the challenge, so the first challenge for me was who to nominate? Marcel was never going to be a contender. He failed to cope with the challenges I threw at him in Chantilly Dawns, his collapse being the whole point of the story. His pal Serge would have coped better, but he'd go at this like a bull in a china shop, act first, think later if at all! I love Serge, but he's not the man for a challenge.
Within Sainte Bastien I could choose Dominic, who I know wouldn't be interested and wouldn't bother himself to compete. More than capable, less than dependable. His father Nick wouldn't have the time or patience. Loss of temper would surely ensue.
Which leaves Pete Allen, and no better man for the job. That was, after all, what he was created to do - to take the bull by the horns in Gala Day and become a hero, even though he's far from heroic and not afraid to admit to being scared. He doesn't let that put him off, though. Level-headed, proven in combat and with a secret enjoyment of acting the hero, if truth be told.
If you were invited, which of your own created characters, or favourite literary characters, would you nominate for a mystery challenge? Will it be a game of wits? Brawn and muscle? Or both?
Pete, I don't know what I'm letting you in for, but I know I can depend upon you to win! Let battle commence!
July 2, 2021
Sainte Bastien characters take over!
Hi, everyone,
you'll notice here that I'm not one for blogs. But I do have to do all the writing for my book characters. They can't make a move without me having to write about it! So I thought I'd turn the tables and call in a favour. Now it's THEIR turn to do the writing and I've assigned the people at Sainte Bastien Stables, from my thriller of that name, to produce a weekly blog. I can't really see them keeping it up, so make the most of this one!
Nick Marchant’s blog
A blog? For the yard’s website? Why not, we already have Face Twit and videos of the horses, shooting off down the mobile phone straight from the gallops! As if I haven’t enough to keep bloody track of! I love horses, my life revolves around them, but there are two things I detest about the ruddy things – their owners and all this bloody nonsense!
I’m a racehorse trainer. My father was a trainer. My grandfather and great-grandfather were trainers. The yard I’m stood in now, Sainte Bastien, was named after my great-grandfather’s first Derby winner. She paid for it. Sainte Bastien, that is, not my great-grandfather. Well, Grandfather paid for it, of course, from the proceeds of the horse, but you get my point. It’s in the blood.
This week, we’ve notched up a good few winners, some Black Type, too, the races that count. The important races are printed in big bold type, Black Type. They talk about bloody jargon driving new punters away, but it couldn’t be any ruddy simpler. This game’s all about keeping it simple. Horses don’t like fuss. They like routine, thrive on it, much like myself.
They’re like my kids. 150 horses in the yard at any one time, every one of them an individual. It’s about getting to know them. You can’t tell them what to do, you have to ask gently and encourage them to want what you want. You can’t use force, you can’t reprimand them. Gently, gently, all the way.
Not like the bloody lads! Not allowed to call them that these days, some bloody politically correct term, staff or grooms or what-have-you. Male, female, young or old, they’re lads; always were, always will be. We’re like one big family, we shout and curse at each other, but we look out for our own. That said, if one of them ever dared shout or curse at me they’d be out on their ear quicker than I could aim a boot at them!
Life’s bloody hard and you have to learn to get on with it. It’s easier with horses in your life, even if it is the ruddy things who cause the hardship in the first place. But they’ve served me well. Put us all through the same school, generations of Marchants.
There’s more than history in this place, more than ghosts. I don’t believe in all that ruddy nonsense, but their memories are here, keeping them all alive. I wouldn’t like to see them lost. The next generation? Well, the least said of him the better. It’s like every other bloody thing around here – all left to me to see it gets done! But what else would I be doing, eh?
Kym Hughes’ blog
It’s my turn this week to update the Sainte Bastien blog and this is just one more reminder why it’s so great to be part of such a fantastic team. I didn’t even know what a blog was last year and no one would have asked me for one. You strive all your life for success and us jockeys are more competitive than most, so to finally make it is a dream come true.
I felt bad for Mark having to retire so unexpectedly, but I never dreamed I’d be offered the job and I’m definitely going to make all those doubters eat their words. Riding as a freelance, I was in different yards and never really part of a team. I did have one main stable, but it was so much smaller, just 30 horses and 10 staff. Coming here, there are 50 of us minding 150 horses and it’s great to get feedback from the team of staff. It helps to know about the individual horses before you ride them in a race, they’re all different with different personalities, and the lads and Mark have been a huge help.
I’d only ridden two winners at the highest level up ’til now, but I’m sitting on Classic stars every morning here at Sainte Bastien and looking forward to my first Classic win. Maple Leaf is my favourite horse and the best I’ve ever sat on. He was Mark’s cast-off last year, when I got to ride him, but we surprised everyone and won, beating Mark on the stable’s number one. I never thought then Maple’ would become my permanent ride.
To have such great horses and to be part of such a great team, it’s a dream come true and I’m determined not to mess up. It’s a bit nerve-wracking, but everyone’s so supportive and helpful. The Guv’nor, Mr Marchant, doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but I’m riding at my best. A good horse makes a good jockey. They have the power and ability to get you out of holes and they give you confidence. Maple’, he’s given me that shot at greatness. There are jockeys who’d give their eyeteeth to get a horse like him.
We’ve a great season ahead of us, me, Maple’ and the whole team here at Sainte Bastien. So keep tuning in to the blogs!
Mark Ashton’s Blog
I know I had a bit of an embarrassing blip, but on the whole retirement’s good. More time to spend with the wife and kids. That puppy I’d always promised them. And I’ve been getting a load done round the house. Yeah, life’s pretty good. It’s not what I would’ve wanted, no one plans to retire at 30. As a jockey, you know it’s coming. 45 or 50 tops, if injury doesn’t get you first. So it’s a bit of a kick in the guts this soon, ’specially as Kym’s a good five years older than me. He’s my replacement. Seeing him with my job, that sucks, I can tell you.
I miss it, of course. That rush. That adrenalin kick. Unless you’ve experienced it, you’ve no idea the rush you get, riding a racehorse at 45 miles an hour. Nothing compares. Not pissing about on ponies. Not even doing half-speeds on racehorses on the gallops of a morning. That’s all I’m allowed since my back went. Shoved up on the quieter ones, out of sympathy, while everyone else gets to notch it up a gear on the good ones. It hurts, I don’t mind saying. And it’s not my back I’m talking about.
But, really, life’s good right now. Just hanging out with Kerry and the kids. I missed out on that, riding. You’d be out on the gallops by seven in the morning and not home from the races ’til seven at the earliest, in bed by ten, seven days a week. So I’m just making the most of it now, chilling out a bit ’til I find my feet.
Life’s good. You just need reminding sometimes, that’s all.
Dominic Marchant’s blog
I’ve been told to write a blog. It isn’t enough merely to ride well, one has also to smile prettily for cameras and produce blogs. I’m aware many brand me sullen, but I merely have the courtesy to think before I speak and don’t waste my time or breath on unnecessary words. I’m seventeen and I’m a jockey. If you have any interest then you’ll already know what that entails and be aware of my name. If you have no interest, you will stop reading. Either way, I appear to be wasting my time.
I’m told I must write of my daily routine. I’m in the yard by 6am, preparing the horses in my care for exercise. As an apprentice, I still have three horses to look after. As a senior rider I’ll be spared that chore. Unlike my colleagues I try not to form attachments; horses have a habit of breaking hearts. I ride four or five pieces of work on the gallops for the trainer who owns my indentures. If I’m lucky, I’ll be asked to ride additional horses for other trainers, in the hope of getting a ride in a race. I desperately need more rides, on better horses.
I finish riding mid-morning, then muck out and clean tack. See the horses are bedded down comfortably in their box, or turned out in a paddock. Hopefully go to the races and get one or two race rides. Home by the evening, in bed by ten. Kill time in between by taking my mind off not eating. Maybe spend a couple of hours in the sauna. If I have eaten, then there’s no maybe about it. There’s more, of course, but you won’t want to hear it, any more than I wish to share it. I’m nearly six foot and weigh less than eight stone. Draw your own conclusions.
Why do I put myself through that? Ambition, desire, need. Recognition. Respect. I got off ponies at nine and up onto my father’s racehorses. There’s no going back after that. And nothing beyond that. Life is a battle, on the racecourse, on the scales, and I need to win, at all costs.
Email from David Churchill:
Hi, Nick,
Dominic’s settling in well. It was no bother, taking him early. Angela and I are happy to have him here. I know he’s had his problems, but I can’t really describe him as anything but polite and well-mannered and a good little worker out in the yard. He’s an asset as a work rider and as far as stable jockey material, you won’t be getting him back so easily!
Whatever your worries and concerns, can I just reassure you it’s all behind him now, from what Angela and I can see. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s making friends in the yard, but he’s certainly not making enemies.
We know from our own experience boys can be a handful at times, but a break away from home is doing him the world of good and I hope it’s doing you some good, too. You’ve not had it easy, running the yard and bringing him up on your own and we appreciate that. You know we’re always here for you.
Sainte Bastien
you'll notice here that I'm not one for blogs. But I do have to do all the writing for my book characters. They can't make a move without me having to write about it! So I thought I'd turn the tables and call in a favour. Now it's THEIR turn to do the writing and I've assigned the people at Sainte Bastien Stables, from my thriller of that name, to produce a weekly blog. I can't really see them keeping it up, so make the most of this one!
Nick Marchant’s blog
A blog? For the yard’s website? Why not, we already have Face Twit and videos of the horses, shooting off down the mobile phone straight from the gallops! As if I haven’t enough to keep bloody track of! I love horses, my life revolves around them, but there are two things I detest about the ruddy things – their owners and all this bloody nonsense!
I’m a racehorse trainer. My father was a trainer. My grandfather and great-grandfather were trainers. The yard I’m stood in now, Sainte Bastien, was named after my great-grandfather’s first Derby winner. She paid for it. Sainte Bastien, that is, not my great-grandfather. Well, Grandfather paid for it, of course, from the proceeds of the horse, but you get my point. It’s in the blood.
This week, we’ve notched up a good few winners, some Black Type, too, the races that count. The important races are printed in big bold type, Black Type. They talk about bloody jargon driving new punters away, but it couldn’t be any ruddy simpler. This game’s all about keeping it simple. Horses don’t like fuss. They like routine, thrive on it, much like myself.
They’re like my kids. 150 horses in the yard at any one time, every one of them an individual. It’s about getting to know them. You can’t tell them what to do, you have to ask gently and encourage them to want what you want. You can’t use force, you can’t reprimand them. Gently, gently, all the way.
Not like the bloody lads! Not allowed to call them that these days, some bloody politically correct term, staff or grooms or what-have-you. Male, female, young or old, they’re lads; always were, always will be. We’re like one big family, we shout and curse at each other, but we look out for our own. That said, if one of them ever dared shout or curse at me they’d be out on their ear quicker than I could aim a boot at them!
Life’s bloody hard and you have to learn to get on with it. It’s easier with horses in your life, even if it is the ruddy things who cause the hardship in the first place. But they’ve served me well. Put us all through the same school, generations of Marchants.
There’s more than history in this place, more than ghosts. I don’t believe in all that ruddy nonsense, but their memories are here, keeping them all alive. I wouldn’t like to see them lost. The next generation? Well, the least said of him the better. It’s like every other bloody thing around here – all left to me to see it gets done! But what else would I be doing, eh?
Kym Hughes’ blog
It’s my turn this week to update the Sainte Bastien blog and this is just one more reminder why it’s so great to be part of such a fantastic team. I didn’t even know what a blog was last year and no one would have asked me for one. You strive all your life for success and us jockeys are more competitive than most, so to finally make it is a dream come true.
I felt bad for Mark having to retire so unexpectedly, but I never dreamed I’d be offered the job and I’m definitely going to make all those doubters eat their words. Riding as a freelance, I was in different yards and never really part of a team. I did have one main stable, but it was so much smaller, just 30 horses and 10 staff. Coming here, there are 50 of us minding 150 horses and it’s great to get feedback from the team of staff. It helps to know about the individual horses before you ride them in a race, they’re all different with different personalities, and the lads and Mark have been a huge help.
I’d only ridden two winners at the highest level up ’til now, but I’m sitting on Classic stars every morning here at Sainte Bastien and looking forward to my first Classic win. Maple Leaf is my favourite horse and the best I’ve ever sat on. He was Mark’s cast-off last year, when I got to ride him, but we surprised everyone and won, beating Mark on the stable’s number one. I never thought then Maple’ would become my permanent ride.
To have such great horses and to be part of such a great team, it’s a dream come true and I’m determined not to mess up. It’s a bit nerve-wracking, but everyone’s so supportive and helpful. The Guv’nor, Mr Marchant, doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but I’m riding at my best. A good horse makes a good jockey. They have the power and ability to get you out of holes and they give you confidence. Maple’, he’s given me that shot at greatness. There are jockeys who’d give their eyeteeth to get a horse like him.
We’ve a great season ahead of us, me, Maple’ and the whole team here at Sainte Bastien. So keep tuning in to the blogs!
Mark Ashton’s Blog
I know I had a bit of an embarrassing blip, but on the whole retirement’s good. More time to spend with the wife and kids. That puppy I’d always promised them. And I’ve been getting a load done round the house. Yeah, life’s pretty good. It’s not what I would’ve wanted, no one plans to retire at 30. As a jockey, you know it’s coming. 45 or 50 tops, if injury doesn’t get you first. So it’s a bit of a kick in the guts this soon, ’specially as Kym’s a good five years older than me. He’s my replacement. Seeing him with my job, that sucks, I can tell you.
I miss it, of course. That rush. That adrenalin kick. Unless you’ve experienced it, you’ve no idea the rush you get, riding a racehorse at 45 miles an hour. Nothing compares. Not pissing about on ponies. Not even doing half-speeds on racehorses on the gallops of a morning. That’s all I’m allowed since my back went. Shoved up on the quieter ones, out of sympathy, while everyone else gets to notch it up a gear on the good ones. It hurts, I don’t mind saying. And it’s not my back I’m talking about.
But, really, life’s good right now. Just hanging out with Kerry and the kids. I missed out on that, riding. You’d be out on the gallops by seven in the morning and not home from the races ’til seven at the earliest, in bed by ten, seven days a week. So I’m just making the most of it now, chilling out a bit ’til I find my feet.
Life’s good. You just need reminding sometimes, that’s all.
Dominic Marchant’s blog
I’ve been told to write a blog. It isn’t enough merely to ride well, one has also to smile prettily for cameras and produce blogs. I’m aware many brand me sullen, but I merely have the courtesy to think before I speak and don’t waste my time or breath on unnecessary words. I’m seventeen and I’m a jockey. If you have any interest then you’ll already know what that entails and be aware of my name. If you have no interest, you will stop reading. Either way, I appear to be wasting my time.
I’m told I must write of my daily routine. I’m in the yard by 6am, preparing the horses in my care for exercise. As an apprentice, I still have three horses to look after. As a senior rider I’ll be spared that chore. Unlike my colleagues I try not to form attachments; horses have a habit of breaking hearts. I ride four or five pieces of work on the gallops for the trainer who owns my indentures. If I’m lucky, I’ll be asked to ride additional horses for other trainers, in the hope of getting a ride in a race. I desperately need more rides, on better horses.
I finish riding mid-morning, then muck out and clean tack. See the horses are bedded down comfortably in their box, or turned out in a paddock. Hopefully go to the races and get one or two race rides. Home by the evening, in bed by ten. Kill time in between by taking my mind off not eating. Maybe spend a couple of hours in the sauna. If I have eaten, then there’s no maybe about it. There’s more, of course, but you won’t want to hear it, any more than I wish to share it. I’m nearly six foot and weigh less than eight stone. Draw your own conclusions.
Why do I put myself through that? Ambition, desire, need. Recognition. Respect. I got off ponies at nine and up onto my father’s racehorses. There’s no going back after that. And nothing beyond that. Life is a battle, on the racecourse, on the scales, and I need to win, at all costs.
Email from David Churchill:
Hi, Nick,
Dominic’s settling in well. It was no bother, taking him early. Angela and I are happy to have him here. I know he’s had his problems, but I can’t really describe him as anything but polite and well-mannered and a good little worker out in the yard. He’s an asset as a work rider and as far as stable jockey material, you won’t be getting him back so easily!
Whatever your worries and concerns, can I just reassure you it’s all behind him now, from what Angela and I can see. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s making friends in the yard, but he’s certainly not making enemies.
We know from our own experience boys can be a handful at times, but a break away from home is doing him the world of good and I hope it’s doing you some good, too. You’ve not had it easy, running the yard and bringing him up on your own and we appreciate that. You know we’re always here for you.
Sainte Bastien
April 14, 2021
A Romantic Interlude!
A Workplace Romance
The alarm woke Simon every morning at six.am, but he never had complaints at getting up and ready for work. He loved his job and had always loved it; but for the past two years working alongside Angelique had taken it to a whole new level. He worshipped the ground she walked on and her affection for him was obvious. She would be moving on again shortly and he was dreading it; but until then he simply enjoyed every moment he could share with her.
She was the first one he greeted on arrival, chatting away to her about nothing in particular. He had gradually got used to choosing specific words with care, but forgot himself when he had nothing of importance to impart.
“You know she only understands French?!” a colleague had reminded him, back on the day he’d first been introduced to Angelique. He’d been jabbering away to her nineteen to the dozen, but pulled himself up then and had very carefully said “pardon, bonjour”, the limit of his French.
Angelique hadn’t minded, she just loved listening to him. But still, to hear a couple of familiar words had felt very reassuring to her on her first day in a strange place and she’d probably loved him from that very moment. To this day, he still said pardon instead of sorry and began every day with a cheery bonjour. He ended each day with it, too, but Angelique was never going to correct him.
For her part, Angelique did not speak. She spoke volumes with her eyes, her expression, her body language, all of which Simon had come to understand fluently; but she had no voice. He’d taken her to the races for the first time and she had been wide-eyed at the fashions, the colour and especially the hats. She had loved the hats and Simon had laughed affectionately at her innocent wonder and joy.
She had had such a wonderful time, she loved nothing better than to go racing with Simon. She would be as excited as a child at Christmas on the day before their outing. Simon could never work out how she knew, whenever he tried to keep it from her as a surprise. She wasn’t always lucky, but it never crushed her enthusiasm. He took her racing often in that last year and when they had returned to Ascot in October he had laughed still more at her bemused search for those glorious hats. He gabbled away to her in explanation and she could pick out nothing of his words, but it didn’t matter and it didn’t spoil the occasion. The smiling faces were still to be appreciated, without the framing of hats.
Theirs was a romance with no fairytale ending. She had only ever been meant to be there for the two years and this was his life, his vocation, not just a job he could give up to follow her. She wasn’t the first he’d lost his heart to and she wouldn’t be the last. But still it hurt.
His bonjour was less cheery that morning, his pardons were more heartfelt, genuinely sorry that on this of all days he’d caused discomfort while gently brushing her hair. She had rested her cheek against his; and had drawn back her head just slightly enough to put her nose to his and breathe in his breath. As he put his arms around her and buried his face in her neck, he felt her soft lips against the back of his neck, her breath warm and moist. They didn’t need to speak.
Reluctantly, he let go and stood back.
“You look beautiful,” he told her, “everyone is going to be so jealous of that coat. You’ll turn heads, Angelique.”
He’d picked the coat she was to travel in himself. She’d got it at Ascot, on one of the days when the women wore extravagant hats but when Angelique had turned heads in her coveted coat. He straightened it for her and ensured she looked at her finest, as he led her out to her awaiting transport.
“You’ll take care of her, won’t you?” he insisted of the girl who had come to collect Angelique.
“Like the queen she is,” the girl assured him. “You’re welcome to visit her anytime, whenever you’re passing.”
He kissed Angelique for the final time, full on the lips, so sweet-smelling and soft and warm. He ruffled her hair and turned away then; unable to watch as the girl led her away up into the horsebox, her Coronation Stakes Winner coat rippling over her muscles as she began her next chapter. No longer a queen of the turf but a broodmare and mother of future champions.
Simon hoped one of her offspring would one day end up in his care. But they would never win the most important prize their mother had claimed – his heart.
The alarm woke Simon every morning at six.am, but he never had complaints at getting up and ready for work. He loved his job and had always loved it; but for the past two years working alongside Angelique had taken it to a whole new level. He worshipped the ground she walked on and her affection for him was obvious. She would be moving on again shortly and he was dreading it; but until then he simply enjoyed every moment he could share with her.
She was the first one he greeted on arrival, chatting away to her about nothing in particular. He had gradually got used to choosing specific words with care, but forgot himself when he had nothing of importance to impart.
“You know she only understands French?!” a colleague had reminded him, back on the day he’d first been introduced to Angelique. He’d been jabbering away to her nineteen to the dozen, but pulled himself up then and had very carefully said “pardon, bonjour”, the limit of his French.
Angelique hadn’t minded, she just loved listening to him. But still, to hear a couple of familiar words had felt very reassuring to her on her first day in a strange place and she’d probably loved him from that very moment. To this day, he still said pardon instead of sorry and began every day with a cheery bonjour. He ended each day with it, too, but Angelique was never going to correct him.
For her part, Angelique did not speak. She spoke volumes with her eyes, her expression, her body language, all of which Simon had come to understand fluently; but she had no voice. He’d taken her to the races for the first time and she had been wide-eyed at the fashions, the colour and especially the hats. She had loved the hats and Simon had laughed affectionately at her innocent wonder and joy.
She had had such a wonderful time, she loved nothing better than to go racing with Simon. She would be as excited as a child at Christmas on the day before their outing. Simon could never work out how she knew, whenever he tried to keep it from her as a surprise. She wasn’t always lucky, but it never crushed her enthusiasm. He took her racing often in that last year and when they had returned to Ascot in October he had laughed still more at her bemused search for those glorious hats. He gabbled away to her in explanation and she could pick out nothing of his words, but it didn’t matter and it didn’t spoil the occasion. The smiling faces were still to be appreciated, without the framing of hats.
Theirs was a romance with no fairytale ending. She had only ever been meant to be there for the two years and this was his life, his vocation, not just a job he could give up to follow her. She wasn’t the first he’d lost his heart to and she wouldn’t be the last. But still it hurt.
His bonjour was less cheery that morning, his pardons were more heartfelt, genuinely sorry that on this of all days he’d caused discomfort while gently brushing her hair. She had rested her cheek against his; and had drawn back her head just slightly enough to put her nose to his and breathe in his breath. As he put his arms around her and buried his face in her neck, he felt her soft lips against the back of his neck, her breath warm and moist. They didn’t need to speak.
Reluctantly, he let go and stood back.
“You look beautiful,” he told her, “everyone is going to be so jealous of that coat. You’ll turn heads, Angelique.”
He’d picked the coat she was to travel in himself. She’d got it at Ascot, on one of the days when the women wore extravagant hats but when Angelique had turned heads in her coveted coat. He straightened it for her and ensured she looked at her finest, as he led her out to her awaiting transport.
“You’ll take care of her, won’t you?” he insisted of the girl who had come to collect Angelique.
“Like the queen she is,” the girl assured him. “You’re welcome to visit her anytime, whenever you’re passing.”
He kissed Angelique for the final time, full on the lips, so sweet-smelling and soft and warm. He ruffled her hair and turned away then; unable to watch as the girl led her away up into the horsebox, her Coronation Stakes Winner coat rippling over her muscles as she began her next chapter. No longer a queen of the turf but a broodmare and mother of future champions.
Simon hoped one of her offspring would one day end up in his care. But they would never win the most important prize their mother had claimed – his heart.
April 10, 2021
Is There A Place For The Love Interest In A Thriller?
‘Where’s your love interest?’ asked the literary agent.
She was already highly put out that I, a woman writer, was presenting a sports-based novel with, god forbid, a man as its hero. I don’t pick up books with pink or pale blue covers and I certainly don’t want to write one, but I persevered.
‘He has enough on his mind, a love interest wouldn’t fit the plot,’ I pointed out.
‘Nonsense, you can’t have a main character without a love interest, write one in,’ she snapped, before telling me that she couldn’t market a sporting thriller anyway about a man, written by a woman. Fortunately it took a man to be less discriminatory and my subsequent publisher accepted both it and the next two sporting thrillers featuring heroes not heroines.
My characters are my invisible friends and frankly I prefer hanging out with good-looking young men far more than I like keeping company with strong feisty heroine types. Love interest? That’s like sharing him with another woman! But one thing she had said did strike a chord.
‘Love is such a powerful dramatic tool. It makes characters behave irrationally and take risks. You must have it.’
Maybe so, but I don’t do romance. Our wedding song for our first dance was high speed punk by Siouxsie And The Banshees. And yet... I dwelt on her words, first indignantly and then with the interest of an author. I liked the sound of irrational risk-taking. If that was what love could do, imagine the cruel havoc I could wreak with unrequited love!
So in Chantilly Dawns Marcel was introduced to Madeleine. He was indeed in no fit state mentally to have any interest in her, but she had a dangerous interest in him, given that her father was the prime suspect in his downfall. I could just picture her father’s face, meeting a bath-robed Marcel at breakfast in Madeleine’s house; all I had to do was write him there. Actually – plot-spoiler alert! – I wrote him there, but he contrived to spend the night conked out on her sofa, a little to her disappointment. But, yes, he fulfilled my wishes by inducing apoplexy in her loathsome father.
Romance may not be my thing, but this pang of heart business was a brilliant find. It was planned in advance for Pete, my Gala Day hero, and Sophie was made for him. Well, actually she’d been made for someone else who kept haunting me for a story, but this realistically seemed Sophie’s only chance to be brought to life. I gave a nod to The Other Man and put him in her past as she and Pete did all the right moves. Pete wasn’t brave, but fought like a hero to protect her. There was definitely something in this love interest malarkey.
So who was that boy in Sophie’s past who had haunted me from the moment I’d created Marcel? Dominic was a complex character and there were many threads needing to be woven before he could become a main player in Sainte Bastien. Several of those threads included love. I was really getting the hang of its power now and the emotional torture it could inflict. Unrequited, tainted, lost, longed for – there were endless possibilities and not a hint of romance among any of them.
Romance? No thank you; but love interest? They don’t call it interest for nothing!
She was already highly put out that I, a woman writer, was presenting a sports-based novel with, god forbid, a man as its hero. I don’t pick up books with pink or pale blue covers and I certainly don’t want to write one, but I persevered.
‘He has enough on his mind, a love interest wouldn’t fit the plot,’ I pointed out.
‘Nonsense, you can’t have a main character without a love interest, write one in,’ she snapped, before telling me that she couldn’t market a sporting thriller anyway about a man, written by a woman. Fortunately it took a man to be less discriminatory and my subsequent publisher accepted both it and the next two sporting thrillers featuring heroes not heroines.
My characters are my invisible friends and frankly I prefer hanging out with good-looking young men far more than I like keeping company with strong feisty heroine types. Love interest? That’s like sharing him with another woman! But one thing she had said did strike a chord.
‘Love is such a powerful dramatic tool. It makes characters behave irrationally and take risks. You must have it.’
Maybe so, but I don’t do romance. Our wedding song for our first dance was high speed punk by Siouxsie And The Banshees. And yet... I dwelt on her words, first indignantly and then with the interest of an author. I liked the sound of irrational risk-taking. If that was what love could do, imagine the cruel havoc I could wreak with unrequited love!
So in Chantilly Dawns Marcel was introduced to Madeleine. He was indeed in no fit state mentally to have any interest in her, but she had a dangerous interest in him, given that her father was the prime suspect in his downfall. I could just picture her father’s face, meeting a bath-robed Marcel at breakfast in Madeleine’s house; all I had to do was write him there. Actually – plot-spoiler alert! – I wrote him there, but he contrived to spend the night conked out on her sofa, a little to her disappointment. But, yes, he fulfilled my wishes by inducing apoplexy in her loathsome father.
Romance may not be my thing, but this pang of heart business was a brilliant find. It was planned in advance for Pete, my Gala Day hero, and Sophie was made for him. Well, actually she’d been made for someone else who kept haunting me for a story, but this realistically seemed Sophie’s only chance to be brought to life. I gave a nod to The Other Man and put him in her past as she and Pete did all the right moves. Pete wasn’t brave, but fought like a hero to protect her. There was definitely something in this love interest malarkey.
So who was that boy in Sophie’s past who had haunted me from the moment I’d created Marcel? Dominic was a complex character and there were many threads needing to be woven before he could become a main player in Sainte Bastien. Several of those threads included love. I was really getting the hang of its power now and the emotional torture it could inflict. Unrequited, tainted, lost, longed for – there were endless possibilities and not a hint of romance among any of them.
Romance? No thank you; but love interest? They don’t call it interest for nothing!
March 18, 2021
In Search of "the spark"
It's been a while since I blogged here. Like most, the pandemic has thrown out my routine, particularly in getting to grips with my novel-in-progress. Still in progress. Often unprogressing. I went back to basics and considered “the spark”; could it be that it was missing?
The spark first ignited in me in my teens, although I’d been writing stories since pre-school. Why did I write my first novel? “Chantilly Dawns” was born of a deep sense of loss, transferred to the protagonist Marcel Dessaint. The more I explored his emotions, fears and desire the more his story formed around him. The people he was drawn to were also formed easily by him; just as our own personality dictates our circle of friends and relationships with family.
Next came “Nero – The Last Caesar”, no creation needed. The spark there was Nero himself and the emotion connecting me was one of injustice. History had dealt him an undeserved bad name that he hadn’t earned in his lifetime; all I had to do was report the facts and give him the voice to defend himself.
Pete Allen had been around for longer than his appearance in my next book, “Gala Day”. A playful caricature of an old acquaintance, he’d initially popped up in a short story to satisfy the real-life Pete’s denied demand to be in “Chantilly Dawns”. You can’t live your life with pen and notebook perpetually in hand without someone asking ‘What’yer writing, can I be in it?’
“Gala Day” was born not from a character but from the desire to write an enjoyable ‘Dick Francis’. Not that I didn’t enjoy the Francis thrillers, but I wanted one set in my world – Flat racing, and a hero who wasn’t brave and who didn’t just brush off blows. Pete Allen was that ‘every man’ and leant himself perfectly to the role of protagonist in an action thriller.
There was someone else in there, too; a shadow haunting from a distance, no more than a mere passing mention from a past playing little part on the “Gala Day” inhabitants. Dominic Marchant was already so familiar to me and so strongly a part of my life that he couldn’t help but seep into my writing. He’d appeared in my head, yet another imaginary friend lodging in my mind, toward the end of “Chantilly Dawns”, so we went way back, he and I.
All he lacked was a story; but missing Marcel and wondering what happened next soon led me to Dominic’s journey. I knew what he was like; finding out why was the real trigger. Also in “Chantilly Dawns” had been the fleeting bit-player Nick Marchant, a perfect blank canvas to take responsibility as Dominic’s father. No longer a blank canvas, the shaping of Dominic became the shaping of Nick and for a long time they each vied for the main protagonist role in “Sainte Bastien”, novel number four. Deciding on which would be the focus, or how to share that focus, took longer than actually writing the book.
Those were the characters who had haunted me from my teens; so when they had been given life and gone out into the world I found myself for the very first time without an imaginary friend. The day I completed my last novel, “Sainte Bastien”, I needed to write my next; but I was at a loss. I had no protagonist and therefore no plot.
I waited to see who might arrive, but I’m not noted for my patience. I began to fish. I revisited Chris and Terry from “Gala Day” and had a half idea for their future. It wasn’t quite enough for the drama of a novel. I toyed with the factual drama of my time in a betting office and that worked so well; but it lacked horses. And I loved the little kid in the movie “Horton Hears A Hoo” and borrowed his attitude and style for teenager Jack, who came from nowhere, a new imaginary friend at long last. As he developed, without an obvious plot, so the possibility of tying him in with Chris and Terry emerged. And who were his family? The betting office resurfaced and with it, its plot. So “Grey Motive” tentatively began, not quite character driven, three protagonists sharing centre stage, a change of direction for me as a novelist.
Previous protagonists had had to deal with their problem on their own. With “Grey Motive” came crime and with it the police. I’d not considered them, but you can’t have a significant theft without a significant police enquiry and my stage was suddenly invaded by two detectives. Given that they entered unexpectedly of their own volition, they have become my unexpected spark, my driving force. I’m attached to Jack, but not in the same way I am to Marcel, Pete and Dominic. For a while, that concerned me. But DI Les de Freitas has instantly wormed his way into my heart. He has restored the status quo and “Grey Motive” is progressing safely as a result.
Not quite saved by the cavalry, just saved by the Thames Valley police force.
The spark first ignited in me in my teens, although I’d been writing stories since pre-school. Why did I write my first novel? “Chantilly Dawns” was born of a deep sense of loss, transferred to the protagonist Marcel Dessaint. The more I explored his emotions, fears and desire the more his story formed around him. The people he was drawn to were also formed easily by him; just as our own personality dictates our circle of friends and relationships with family.
Next came “Nero – The Last Caesar”, no creation needed. The spark there was Nero himself and the emotion connecting me was one of injustice. History had dealt him an undeserved bad name that he hadn’t earned in his lifetime; all I had to do was report the facts and give him the voice to defend himself.
Pete Allen had been around for longer than his appearance in my next book, “Gala Day”. A playful caricature of an old acquaintance, he’d initially popped up in a short story to satisfy the real-life Pete’s denied demand to be in “Chantilly Dawns”. You can’t live your life with pen and notebook perpetually in hand without someone asking ‘What’yer writing, can I be in it?’
“Gala Day” was born not from a character but from the desire to write an enjoyable ‘Dick Francis’. Not that I didn’t enjoy the Francis thrillers, but I wanted one set in my world – Flat racing, and a hero who wasn’t brave and who didn’t just brush off blows. Pete Allen was that ‘every man’ and leant himself perfectly to the role of protagonist in an action thriller.
There was someone else in there, too; a shadow haunting from a distance, no more than a mere passing mention from a past playing little part on the “Gala Day” inhabitants. Dominic Marchant was already so familiar to me and so strongly a part of my life that he couldn’t help but seep into my writing. He’d appeared in my head, yet another imaginary friend lodging in my mind, toward the end of “Chantilly Dawns”, so we went way back, he and I.
All he lacked was a story; but missing Marcel and wondering what happened next soon led me to Dominic’s journey. I knew what he was like; finding out why was the real trigger. Also in “Chantilly Dawns” had been the fleeting bit-player Nick Marchant, a perfect blank canvas to take responsibility as Dominic’s father. No longer a blank canvas, the shaping of Dominic became the shaping of Nick and for a long time they each vied for the main protagonist role in “Sainte Bastien”, novel number four. Deciding on which would be the focus, or how to share that focus, took longer than actually writing the book.
Those were the characters who had haunted me from my teens; so when they had been given life and gone out into the world I found myself for the very first time without an imaginary friend. The day I completed my last novel, “Sainte Bastien”, I needed to write my next; but I was at a loss. I had no protagonist and therefore no plot.
I waited to see who might arrive, but I’m not noted for my patience. I began to fish. I revisited Chris and Terry from “Gala Day” and had a half idea for their future. It wasn’t quite enough for the drama of a novel. I toyed with the factual drama of my time in a betting office and that worked so well; but it lacked horses. And I loved the little kid in the movie “Horton Hears A Hoo” and borrowed his attitude and style for teenager Jack, who came from nowhere, a new imaginary friend at long last. As he developed, without an obvious plot, so the possibility of tying him in with Chris and Terry emerged. And who were his family? The betting office resurfaced and with it, its plot. So “Grey Motive” tentatively began, not quite character driven, three protagonists sharing centre stage, a change of direction for me as a novelist.
Previous protagonists had had to deal with their problem on their own. With “Grey Motive” came crime and with it the police. I’d not considered them, but you can’t have a significant theft without a significant police enquiry and my stage was suddenly invaded by two detectives. Given that they entered unexpectedly of their own volition, they have become my unexpected spark, my driving force. I’m attached to Jack, but not in the same way I am to Marcel, Pete and Dominic. For a while, that concerned me. But DI Les de Freitas has instantly wormed his way into my heart. He has restored the status quo and “Grey Motive” is progressing safely as a result.
Not quite saved by the cavalry, just saved by the Thames Valley police force.
May 7, 2020
Theft and the fictional detective
Hello Goodreads followers and thank you for your support and feedback, it’s always appreciated. Writing is an otherwise lonely profession, so it’s good to connect with you all. I hope this finds everyone safe and well during the strange and difficult pandemic restrictions. You might think it’s made for authors, who famously are locked away at home writing the next blockbuster, but that’s not always the case.
Like all professionals at the moment, I know from my position as Chairman of the Irish Writers Union that many authors are struggling. A lot like to go out to libraries or cafes to write, so working from home isn’t easy. Some have other family members now working from home, too, and competing for that quiet space!
Only 6% of authors globally earn a full-time living from their books, so the usual income streams such as teaching creative writing, hosting panels, holding workshops and appearing at festivals or book-signings have been curtailed. Book sales have also fallen, as bookstores remain closed. We so appreciate your continued support when shopping online.
It’s appropriate that I’m using some of my Lockdown time to finish my next novel, Grey Motive. It may be fiction, but it draws more than a little from my own experiences in the horseracing world and a real-life mystery surrounding a betting office I once worked in. Until now the heroes of my books have had to fend for themselves and solve their own, very major, problems, but in Grey Motive I have enlisted the expertise of two fictional detectives to investigate the disappearance of a substantial amount of money.
I’ve really taken to DI de Freitas and DS McCulloch and enjoy having them with me here in confinement. The more of their story I write, the more alive and solid they become.
I only wish they could help me in real life, as right now authors across the world are in need of their services. Well-meaning but misguided fraudsters are using the pandemic as an excuse to offer free downloads of books, which amounts to theft. They profit by selling advertising space on their website.
Everyone is paid for their work. In factories, workers are paid for the number of items they produce. Artists sell the work of art they have completed. Craftsmen sell their finished product. It’s how the world earns its living. Sadly, free book downloads are stealing income from authors. We don’t receive lump sums in advance of our book, we are paid a percentage of the cover price for each individual book sold. Typically, this is around 7%, so just 70ct for every €10 book. The book may have taken a year or two to write, but the income it generates will not arrive until after its first year of sales. Very few books sell above 6,000 copies and most don’t reach 3,000 sales.
Unauthorised free book downloads make a severe dent in our livelihood and the more time we spend on subsidising our income, the less time we have for writing books. Ultimately this affects you, our readers. I might add that the publisher of a book makes even less than the author and if publishers go out of business, we all suffer. As a writer, I would continue to write for the sheer joy and pleasure of the pastime, but as a keen reader I would be devastated to lose the range of books currently available to me.
So please be warned of the threat of unauthorised free downloads from major websites. If it is not the publisher’s own website, or that of the author, then please don’t support the flagrant theft of work.
Like all professionals at the moment, I know from my position as Chairman of the Irish Writers Union that many authors are struggling. A lot like to go out to libraries or cafes to write, so working from home isn’t easy. Some have other family members now working from home, too, and competing for that quiet space!
Only 6% of authors globally earn a full-time living from their books, so the usual income streams such as teaching creative writing, hosting panels, holding workshops and appearing at festivals or book-signings have been curtailed. Book sales have also fallen, as bookstores remain closed. We so appreciate your continued support when shopping online.
It’s appropriate that I’m using some of my Lockdown time to finish my next novel, Grey Motive. It may be fiction, but it draws more than a little from my own experiences in the horseracing world and a real-life mystery surrounding a betting office I once worked in. Until now the heroes of my books have had to fend for themselves and solve their own, very major, problems, but in Grey Motive I have enlisted the expertise of two fictional detectives to investigate the disappearance of a substantial amount of money.
I’ve really taken to DI de Freitas and DS McCulloch and enjoy having them with me here in confinement. The more of their story I write, the more alive and solid they become.
I only wish they could help me in real life, as right now authors across the world are in need of their services. Well-meaning but misguided fraudsters are using the pandemic as an excuse to offer free downloads of books, which amounts to theft. They profit by selling advertising space on their website.
Everyone is paid for their work. In factories, workers are paid for the number of items they produce. Artists sell the work of art they have completed. Craftsmen sell their finished product. It’s how the world earns its living. Sadly, free book downloads are stealing income from authors. We don’t receive lump sums in advance of our book, we are paid a percentage of the cover price for each individual book sold. Typically, this is around 7%, so just 70ct for every €10 book. The book may have taken a year or two to write, but the income it generates will not arrive until after its first year of sales. Very few books sell above 6,000 copies and most don’t reach 3,000 sales.
Unauthorised free book downloads make a severe dent in our livelihood and the more time we spend on subsidising our income, the less time we have for writing books. Ultimately this affects you, our readers. I might add that the publisher of a book makes even less than the author and if publishers go out of business, we all suffer. As a writer, I would continue to write for the sheer joy and pleasure of the pastime, but as a keen reader I would be devastated to lose the range of books currently available to me.
So please be warned of the threat of unauthorised free downloads from major websites. If it is not the publisher’s own website, or that of the author, then please don’t support the flagrant theft of work.
January 14, 2020
Reading or Writing Challenge?
Last year my good intentions to complete my novel-in-progress, "Grey Motive", failed. This year I am determined to cut back on work, which sees me writing about 6,000 words a week for magazines, and instead set myself the achievable goal of 1,200 words a week on "Grey Motive".
Fiction is a different beast to articles and the latter is just assembling facts into an interesting story. I find the writing of fiction a great deal slower, as I'm watching the story unfold first, visualising before writing. Every action has a reaction and consequence, so every line takes thought.
All of which means my reading challenge, optimistically set at 20, is sure to fail. In fact, I hope it does. This year I want to be writing a book, not reading one.
My work in the horseracing industry always provides inspiration, but this month it has been for an unwanted genre - war and tragedy. A leading stud farm in Libya was raided by militia and 30 horses abducted, including six stallions and mares with foals or about to foal. Cruelly, any horses that would not walk easily up into the trucks were shot. The grooms are devastated and risked their lives to attempt rescue, attacked, beaten and even driven down by military jeeps. We can only sit and hope the horses are returned.
Away from work, I have been busy with various interviews, about my books and writing in general. My advice, as always, to would-be writers is don’t waste time analysing or learning theory, just sit down and write the book you want to read. If you enjoy writing it, and will enjoy reading it, then so will others. It's important you read a lot of good books and know how a book is laid out, however. Anyone who puzzles over paragraphs or indents for dialogue needs to stop writing and start reading!
Whether you embark on a reading challenge or a writing challenge, good luck and enjoy!
Fiction is a different beast to articles and the latter is just assembling facts into an interesting story. I find the writing of fiction a great deal slower, as I'm watching the story unfold first, visualising before writing. Every action has a reaction and consequence, so every line takes thought.
All of which means my reading challenge, optimistically set at 20, is sure to fail. In fact, I hope it does. This year I want to be writing a book, not reading one.
My work in the horseracing industry always provides inspiration, but this month it has been for an unwanted genre - war and tragedy. A leading stud farm in Libya was raided by militia and 30 horses abducted, including six stallions and mares with foals or about to foal. Cruelly, any horses that would not walk easily up into the trucks were shot. The grooms are devastated and risked their lives to attempt rescue, attacked, beaten and even driven down by military jeeps. We can only sit and hope the horses are returned.
Away from work, I have been busy with various interviews, about my books and writing in general. My advice, as always, to would-be writers is don’t waste time analysing or learning theory, just sit down and write the book you want to read. If you enjoy writing it, and will enjoy reading it, then so will others. It's important you read a lot of good books and know how a book is laid out, however. Anyone who puzzles over paragraphs or indents for dialogue needs to stop writing and start reading!
Whether you embark on a reading challenge or a writing challenge, good luck and enjoy!
