Jessica Rydill's Blog, page 17
April 1, 2016
BRSBKBLOG: Fight like a girl review & The discoverability cha...
Peter Sutton reviews the new anthology of short fiction Fight Like a Girl from Grimbold Books launching on 2nd April...today!
I received this book in return for an honest review. Happy to say I really enjoyed it.
Grimbold Books have called some of the best female genre writers together under a fantastic cover to tell tales of what it actually means to 'fight like a girl'. Of course that has been thrown as an insult by boys of all ages but what would it actually mean?
There are stories here that run a gamut of second worlds, near and far futures. There is a collection of superb female characters, often making tough choices. This is a rich and varied anthology.
Read the rest here: BRSBKBLOG: Fight like a girl review & The discoverability challenge...:
I received this book in return for an honest review. Happy to say I really enjoyed it.
Grimbold Books have called some of the best female genre writers together under a fantastic cover to tell tales of what it actually means to 'fight like a girl'. Of course that has been thrown as an insult by boys of all ages but what would it actually mean?
There are stories here that run a gamut of second worlds, near and far futures. There is a collection of superb female characters, often making tough choices. This is a rich and varied anthology.
Read the rest here: BRSBKBLOG: Fight like a girl review & The discoverability challenge...:
March 31, 2016
Speculative Fiction Showcase: Indie Speculative Fiction of the Month for March 2...
Cora Buhlert's round up of the month's new releases from the Speculative Fiction Showcase:
Speculative Fiction Showcase: Indie Speculative Fiction of the Month for March 2...:
"It’s that time of the month again, time for “Indie Speculative Fiction of the Month”.
So what is “Indie Speculative Fiction of the Month”? It’s a round-up of speculative fiction by indie authors newly published this month, though some February books I missed the last time around snuck in as well. The books are arranged in alphabetical order by author. So far, most links only go to Amazon.com, though I may add other retailers for future editions.
Once again, we have new releases covering the whole broad spectrum of speculative fiction. We have space opera, military science fiction, science fiction romance, paranormal romance, fantasy romance, epic fantasy, urban fantasy, horror, post-apocalyptic fiction, vampires, wizards, demons, alien invasions, flying saucers, telepathic space pirates, monstrous conspiracies, dead druids, magical wars, royal bodyguards, gods in the modern world and much more.
As always, I know the authors at least vaguely, but I haven’t read all of the books, so Caveat emptor."
(All words by Cora!)
Speculative Fiction Showcase: Indie Speculative Fiction of the Month for March 2...:
"It’s that time of the month again, time for “Indie Speculative Fiction of the Month”.
So what is “Indie Speculative Fiction of the Month”? It’s a round-up of speculative fiction by indie authors newly published this month, though some February books I missed the last time around snuck in as well. The books are arranged in alphabetical order by author. So far, most links only go to Amazon.com, though I may add other retailers for future editions.
Once again, we have new releases covering the whole broad spectrum of speculative fiction. We have space opera, military science fiction, science fiction romance, paranormal romance, fantasy romance, epic fantasy, urban fantasy, horror, post-apocalyptic fiction, vampires, wizards, demons, alien invasions, flying saucers, telepathic space pirates, monstrous conspiracies, dead druids, magical wars, royal bodyguards, gods in the modern world and much more.
As always, I know the authors at least vaguely, but I haven’t read all of the books, so Caveat emptor."
(All words by Cora!)
March 28, 2016
Nobody Knew She Was There - a new SFF Blog hosted by Fantasy author Sarah Ash
Nobody Knew She Was There…
"Female Fantasy and Science Fiction writers share their thoughts on the state of the SFF genre today…and what’s most important to them when they pick up their pens."
With many thanks to Sarah Ash, I am the first guest on this new blog, hosted by Sarah on her web-site.
Coming soon, blogs from Jan Edwards, Freda Warrington, Stephanie Burgis and Liz Williams at weekly intervals.
A snippet from my contribution...
Read more...
"Female Fantasy and Science Fiction writers share their thoughts on the state of the SFF genre today…and what’s most important to them when they pick up their pens."
With many thanks to Sarah Ash, I am the first guest on this new blog, hosted by Sarah on her web-site.
Coming soon, blogs from Jan Edwards, Freda Warrington, Stephanie Burgis and Liz Williams at weekly intervals.
A snippet from my contribution...
My name is Jessica Rydill, and I’m an indie writer.
Sort of.
About fifteen years ago, I had a trad or legacy publisher, who published my first two novels, Children of the Shaman and The Glass Mountain, in paperback.
Although critically well received (as they say) they didn’t sell loads, and after a few years, my publisher and I parted company.
After that, Things Happened. Life.
I finished my third book, Malarat, in 2009. It is an epic 200,000 words long, and though my agent tried to sell it to several publishers, they were not interested, because the first two didn’t sell loads (see previous), and it was the third book in a series.
With great trepidation I set out to self-publish my third book on Amazon and the other marketplaces that sell eBooks – they are many.
Malarat first appeared in Kindle format in 2013, when I discovered the dubious joys of being a self-published author – or a hybrid, as those of us who started out in legacy publishing are referred to.
You know the title of this blog, Nobody knew she was there?
There’s a reason it’s called that.
Read more...
January 25, 2016
Winterbloom finished
Yep. Today I finished the first draft. Now I just have to edit it!
The current word count is 180,000 plus, so I am going to have to shed a lot of pounds (as it were).
I'm currently feeling slightly traumatised, because what do I do now?
Of course, there's loads to do: some beta-reading I should have finished ages ago, and some reviews, and many things that have been neglected over the past few weeks while I tried to knock out the first draft.
So here is another excerpt from Chapter 3:
Annat released Yuste’s hand and stepped forward. Yuste felt the beat of their two hearts, slightly out of synchronisation with each other. She was aware of the unborn child in Annat’s body, so small it was barely human, curled up like a tadpole out of sight. A third heart starting to beat, a third shaman waiting to be born.Yuste thought she could hear the sound of the sea outside, breaking at the bottom of the cliff. Perhaps there was a storm brewing, as the fisher-folk liked to say. A storm that might have made a sound outside, the banging of a door or a shutter, or a rush of wind through the trees.‘Annat,’ she said. Her voice sounded hoarse, as if she had been smoking cigarettes. She did not like to think of herself as old; she was only forty-four, and her mother only sixty-four. How was it possible that she could feel such unreasoning terror of something she could not see?‘Perhaps it’s a Tailypo,’ said Annat with a breathless laugh, recalling the grisly children’s story about an old man who cut off and ate the tail of a strange animal, only for it to come and haunt him. She repeated the creature’s words in a creaky voice, as Yuste had done when telling the story to her as a child.‘“Tailypo, tailypo, give me back by tailypo!” ‘‘Stop that!’ said Yuste, who was seriously unnerved. The story had made the children laugh, but it had also made them afraid to go to sleep without a candle in the room. The old house on the headland was remote and isolated; there had always been strange noises at night, even when Yuste and Yuda had been the children sharing the bedroom with the two beds. It struck her as absurd; her brother was now a ghost himself, and he had visited the house with his spectral companions. But then a visit from the underworld was not the same as a haunting; all shamans knew that their kind continued after death, it was the return to the upper world that was unusual.Annat turned to give Yuste’s hand a squeeze. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Auntie,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’d like to do this by myself.’Yuste shook her head. ‘It is you that are protecting me, Natka,’ she said. ‘Boris would laugh – and be appalled – to see me tremble like this.’Just as she finished speaking, they both heard the sound again. This time, it was not possible to deny its existence. It was not a knock at the door, but a scraping sound on the wood of the planks, a sound like claws.‘Zyon,’ said Yuste. She felt her heart palpitate; there was something outside, something that she could not see, trying to get in. Her house was no longer safe; Boris was asleep upstairs, and her aging mother needed protection. They were both deeply asleep, vulnerable humans protected only by bedclothes that covered them while they dreamed. Yuste could almost touch the susurrus of their breathing and their untroubled sleep. But she was here in the dark with her niece, a woman carrying a child; she was alone, on the headland, with an old wooden door between her and whatever was outside.Annat gasped, as if she were no longer amused by the memory of a childhood horror. And another unwanted thought came to Yuste – what was it that could frighten a shaman like Annat, one who had travelled through the underworld alone, and laboured there for seven years? She had seen sights that Yuste could only read about in the textbooks of shamanism, written by the Masters like Sorgay and Gulimche (who was a woman). These books had been written before the Masters sent Prakhash Sival, the teacher, to Yevropa looking for shamans to train.
‘We must look,’ she said, hearing the degree to which her own voice shook. If one used sprechen, one’s thoughts did not tremble, but the overlay of fear would be just as unmistakeable.
The current word count is 180,000 plus, so I am going to have to shed a lot of pounds (as it were).
I'm currently feeling slightly traumatised, because what do I do now?
Of course, there's loads to do: some beta-reading I should have finished ages ago, and some reviews, and many things that have been neglected over the past few weeks while I tried to knock out the first draft.
So here is another excerpt from Chapter 3:
Annat released Yuste’s hand and stepped forward. Yuste felt the beat of their two hearts, slightly out of synchronisation with each other. She was aware of the unborn child in Annat’s body, so small it was barely human, curled up like a tadpole out of sight. A third heart starting to beat, a third shaman waiting to be born.Yuste thought she could hear the sound of the sea outside, breaking at the bottom of the cliff. Perhaps there was a storm brewing, as the fisher-folk liked to say. A storm that might have made a sound outside, the banging of a door or a shutter, or a rush of wind through the trees.‘Annat,’ she said. Her voice sounded hoarse, as if she had been smoking cigarettes. She did not like to think of herself as old; she was only forty-four, and her mother only sixty-four. How was it possible that she could feel such unreasoning terror of something she could not see?‘Perhaps it’s a Tailypo,’ said Annat with a breathless laugh, recalling the grisly children’s story about an old man who cut off and ate the tail of a strange animal, only for it to come and haunt him. She repeated the creature’s words in a creaky voice, as Yuste had done when telling the story to her as a child.‘“Tailypo, tailypo, give me back by tailypo!” ‘‘Stop that!’ said Yuste, who was seriously unnerved. The story had made the children laugh, but it had also made them afraid to go to sleep without a candle in the room. The old house on the headland was remote and isolated; there had always been strange noises at night, even when Yuste and Yuda had been the children sharing the bedroom with the two beds. It struck her as absurd; her brother was now a ghost himself, and he had visited the house with his spectral companions. But then a visit from the underworld was not the same as a haunting; all shamans knew that their kind continued after death, it was the return to the upper world that was unusual.Annat turned to give Yuste’s hand a squeeze. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Auntie,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’d like to do this by myself.’Yuste shook her head. ‘It is you that are protecting me, Natka,’ she said. ‘Boris would laugh – and be appalled – to see me tremble like this.’Just as she finished speaking, they both heard the sound again. This time, it was not possible to deny its existence. It was not a knock at the door, but a scraping sound on the wood of the planks, a sound like claws.‘Zyon,’ said Yuste. She felt her heart palpitate; there was something outside, something that she could not see, trying to get in. Her house was no longer safe; Boris was asleep upstairs, and her aging mother needed protection. They were both deeply asleep, vulnerable humans protected only by bedclothes that covered them while they dreamed. Yuste could almost touch the susurrus of their breathing and their untroubled sleep. But she was here in the dark with her niece, a woman carrying a child; she was alone, on the headland, with an old wooden door between her and whatever was outside.Annat gasped, as if she were no longer amused by the memory of a childhood horror. And another unwanted thought came to Yuste – what was it that could frighten a shaman like Annat, one who had travelled through the underworld alone, and laboured there for seven years? She had seen sights that Yuste could only read about in the textbooks of shamanism, written by the Masters like Sorgay and Gulimche (who was a woman). These books had been written before the Masters sent Prakhash Sival, the teacher, to Yevropa looking for shamans to train.
‘We must look,’ she said, hearing the degree to which her own voice shook. If one used sprechen, one’s thoughts did not tremble, but the overlay of fear would be just as unmistakeable.
December 20, 2015
Speculative Fiction Showcase: Speculative Fiction Links of the Week for December...
Cora Buhlert's weekly round-up of links! Lots of good stuff - reviews of The Force Awakens and much more...
Speculative Fiction Showcase: Speculative Fiction Links of the Week for December...: And here is our weekly round-up of interesting links about speculative fiction from around the web, this week with yet more best SFF o...
There's also loads of interesting stuff on the blog this month about more SF&F new releases. Cora has been doing the blog single-handed while I went off and did other stuff.
Speculative Fiction Showcase: Speculative Fiction Links of the Week for December...: And here is our weekly round-up of interesting links about speculative fiction from around the web, this week with yet more best SFF o...
There's also loads of interesting stuff on the blog this month about more SF&F new releases. Cora has been doing the blog single-handed while I went off and did other stuff.
December 14, 2015
Children of the Shaman paperback
The paperback edition of my first book, Children of the Shaman, is now available from Amazon in the US, UK and Europe.
The cover art is once again by Skylar Faith of Truenotdreams Design. The book is 9 x 6 inches, which turned out larger than had expected, so it is an elegant 280 pages long.This version is different to the 2001 edition in several ways. It includes a list of character names, a glossary and a map.The cover art features a golden ring with an amber stone which plays a significant role in the first book, and most of the sequels!Meanwhile, I’m on what I hope is the last chapter of Winterbloom! which is topping out at over 150,000 words (first draft).Here are some links in case you are moved to go and inspect the shiny new paperback version!AmazonAmazon UK
The cover art is once again by Skylar Faith of Truenotdreams Design. The book is 9 x 6 inches, which turned out larger than had expected, so it is an elegant 280 pages long.This version is different to the 2001 edition in several ways. It includes a list of character names, a glossary and a map.The cover art features a golden ring with an amber stone which plays a significant role in the first book, and most of the sequels!Meanwhile, I’m on what I hope is the last chapter of Winterbloom! which is topping out at over 150,000 words (first draft).Here are some links in case you are moved to go and inspect the shiny new paperback version!AmazonAmazon UK
September 28, 2015
Winterbloom - another excerpt
Winterbloom is coming along nicely, and I have now passed the 125,000 word mark, despite some rather fierce inflight editing.
Our heroes (?) have now made it to Earth and are about to cause a modest amount of havoc in 1920's Bath. I'm having to bone up on such luminaries as Dr Dee, John Wood the Elder, and William Beckford.
As usual, the scope of the plot is nothing if not over-ambitious. Not one but three parallel worlds, plus a certain amount of bucketing about in the underground. I would like to get a Citroen camionette into the story, but I don't think they existed in 1921, and the fantastic elements of the plot need to be anchored in reality where possible.
I should also add that I'm not going to blow up Bath Abbey, or the Roman Baths, or any other well-known-for-not-having-exploded landmarks. But there may be a certain bit of dramatic license involving a well-known archaeological site.
In the mean time, Stephen has been paginating Children of the Shaman, and we are hoping to produce a paperback edition in the not-too-distant future. This will feature cover art by Truenotdreams Design, and will be printed by Createspace.
Right, that's enough maundering on (to quote a friend)!
Here is an extract from Chapter 2 of Winterbloom, The Night Visitors:
It was the middle of the night. Yuste Grebenshikov woke and sat bolt upright in bed, her husband snoring beside her. They did not have electricity in the country, so she snapped her fingers to make a flame and slipped out of bed, padding across the bare wood floor to the desk where she kept her papers. She lit a candle and blew out the flame that had barely singed her fingertips. Here on the desktop were her journal, a pen with a new nib, and an inkwell. Yuste sat down at the desk and began to write, dipping her pen in the ink now and again as she wrote. An idea had occurred to her on the verge of sleep, and she wanted to write it down before it slipped her mind. Thoughts, like words, were so easily lost, and in her present position, any small clue could be vital. She inscribed the words ‘Pomegranate Seed. Daughter of the Goddess.’
Yuste paused. She knew about Goddesses. She had even met one, because her nature entailed moving between real and magical realms. Her view of reality was always tinged with an awareness of other worlds that she could not see; that she had to shut out. She was able to see the dead and, if she was unlucky, they would come to the back door asking to be admitted.
Yuste had grown up between worlds. When she was a child, her mother had been so frightened of her offspring’s strange behaviour that she had taken Yuste and her twin brother to the big city to see a famous man, a foreigner with a dark face who wore what appeared to be silk pyjamas, and sat on the floor rather than behind a desk. Yuste’s mother had entered the room, holding a child by either hand, and the guru had risen to meet them; he was only floating about an inch above the floor. Yuste’s brother had laughed out loud, and so had she; their mother sighed because they did everything together, could not be separated, and would not speak.
The guru had gazed at the small, black-eyed children who stared up at him, suddenly solemn. Their mother was small too, her hair concealed by a bonnet, and she wore a dark-coloured spencer over a plain calico dress. The guru had conducted their mother to a chair, and called up a servant to make tea. Then he had sat down cross-legged on the rug, watching the children to see what they would do.
They stood hand in hand, staring at him. He could see that they were small for their age; they were immaculately dressed, the little girl in white lawn, and her brother in breeches and a black jacket.
‘Well,’ said the guru, ‘what is to be done?’
Their mother leaned forward. ‘What do you think is the matter, sir?’
‘You must prepare yourself for a shock, Madame,’ said the guru. ‘I think you have twin shamans. And they will be powerful.’
The children looked round as their mother gasped. They saw her dismay.
‘A shaman – what is that?’ she said.
‘They have powers that we – ordinary mortals – do not. In little children, these powers are weak, but they will grow. In Cine and Inde, my home, they have been known of for some centuries, but in your part of the world they are much less common. In recent years, after the ending of the Great Cold, more have started to be born, which is why my masters sent me here to found a school.’
‘How can you tell?’ said their mother.
‘The signs are subtle. The children are small, and as you say, they do not speak. That is because they can talk to each other without opening their mouths. They can hear each other’s thoughts. And they have a faint aura that can only be detected with special lenses – theirs is a pretty blue.’
‘But it must be dangerous,’ said mother. ‘What sort of powers do they have?’
‘They will make lightning with their hands. They will heal sickness and wounds. And they will travel from this world into the next, and all the other worlds. Already they can see things to which we are blind. If they could only tell us, who knows what they would say.’
Yuste’s mother had covered her eyes with a gloved hand.
‘I am afraid,’ she said. ‘We are Wanderers, and can be persecuted. And now this!’
The guru smiled at the children, who were looking solemn.
‘I think your children will be able to look after themselves,’ he said.
Yuste recalled vividly the most recent occasion when she had been troubled by insomnia. It had been the day after the Winter Solstice, when Wanderers were accustomed to celebrate the Candle Feast, one of the most important celebrations of the year. On that night, in the coldest part of the year, Yuste had been unable to sleep. She had been troubled by ruminations about the present and the past, worrying in turn about her mother, her niece and her business, which was being neglected while she and Boris lingered in the countryside. In the end, she had risen from her bed and crept downstairs to the kitchen, opening the stove to rekindle the fire. She put on her slippers, for the quarry tiles on the kitchen floor were cold, and considered walking up to the headland to look at the sea, something she was accustomed to doing when she could not sleep.
It was then that someone had knocked, twice, on the back door. All the hairs stood up on the back of Yuste’s neck, and she shivered. She did not know what time of night it was, but midnight had passed, and people seldom came to the house after sunset. If she had not been a shaman, Yuste would have left the door bolted shut and waited for the visitor – if there were a visitor – to leave. As it was, she padded from the kitchen to the back door and started to unlock it, wondering who had decided to disturb them at this late hour. When the door swung open, her heart skipped a beat, and then she was disappointed; there seemed to be nobody there. She was about to close the door, when something made her step over the threshold and look out.
Our heroes (?) have now made it to Earth and are about to cause a modest amount of havoc in 1920's Bath. I'm having to bone up on such luminaries as Dr Dee, John Wood the Elder, and William Beckford.
As usual, the scope of the plot is nothing if not over-ambitious. Not one but three parallel worlds, plus a certain amount of bucketing about in the underground. I would like to get a Citroen camionette into the story, but I don't think they existed in 1921, and the fantastic elements of the plot need to be anchored in reality where possible.
I should also add that I'm not going to blow up Bath Abbey, or the Roman Baths, or any other well-known-for-not-having-exploded landmarks. But there may be a certain bit of dramatic license involving a well-known archaeological site.
In the mean time, Stephen has been paginating Children of the Shaman, and we are hoping to produce a paperback edition in the not-too-distant future. This will feature cover art by Truenotdreams Design, and will be printed by Createspace.
Right, that's enough maundering on (to quote a friend)!
Here is an extract from Chapter 2 of Winterbloom, The Night Visitors:
It was the middle of the night. Yuste Grebenshikov woke and sat bolt upright in bed, her husband snoring beside her. They did not have electricity in the country, so she snapped her fingers to make a flame and slipped out of bed, padding across the bare wood floor to the desk where she kept her papers. She lit a candle and blew out the flame that had barely singed her fingertips. Here on the desktop were her journal, a pen with a new nib, and an inkwell. Yuste sat down at the desk and began to write, dipping her pen in the ink now and again as she wrote. An idea had occurred to her on the verge of sleep, and she wanted to write it down before it slipped her mind. Thoughts, like words, were so easily lost, and in her present position, any small clue could be vital. She inscribed the words ‘Pomegranate Seed. Daughter of the Goddess.’
Yuste paused. She knew about Goddesses. She had even met one, because her nature entailed moving between real and magical realms. Her view of reality was always tinged with an awareness of other worlds that she could not see; that she had to shut out. She was able to see the dead and, if she was unlucky, they would come to the back door asking to be admitted.
Yuste had grown up between worlds. When she was a child, her mother had been so frightened of her offspring’s strange behaviour that she had taken Yuste and her twin brother to the big city to see a famous man, a foreigner with a dark face who wore what appeared to be silk pyjamas, and sat on the floor rather than behind a desk. Yuste’s mother had entered the room, holding a child by either hand, and the guru had risen to meet them; he was only floating about an inch above the floor. Yuste’s brother had laughed out loud, and so had she; their mother sighed because they did everything together, could not be separated, and would not speak.
The guru had gazed at the small, black-eyed children who stared up at him, suddenly solemn. Their mother was small too, her hair concealed by a bonnet, and she wore a dark-coloured spencer over a plain calico dress. The guru had conducted their mother to a chair, and called up a servant to make tea. Then he had sat down cross-legged on the rug, watching the children to see what they would do.
They stood hand in hand, staring at him. He could see that they were small for their age; they were immaculately dressed, the little girl in white lawn, and her brother in breeches and a black jacket.
‘Well,’ said the guru, ‘what is to be done?’
Their mother leaned forward. ‘What do you think is the matter, sir?’
‘You must prepare yourself for a shock, Madame,’ said the guru. ‘I think you have twin shamans. And they will be powerful.’
The children looked round as their mother gasped. They saw her dismay.
‘A shaman – what is that?’ she said.
‘They have powers that we – ordinary mortals – do not. In little children, these powers are weak, but they will grow. In Cine and Inde, my home, they have been known of for some centuries, but in your part of the world they are much less common. In recent years, after the ending of the Great Cold, more have started to be born, which is why my masters sent me here to found a school.’
‘How can you tell?’ said their mother.
‘The signs are subtle. The children are small, and as you say, they do not speak. That is because they can talk to each other without opening their mouths. They can hear each other’s thoughts. And they have a faint aura that can only be detected with special lenses – theirs is a pretty blue.’
‘But it must be dangerous,’ said mother. ‘What sort of powers do they have?’
‘They will make lightning with their hands. They will heal sickness and wounds. And they will travel from this world into the next, and all the other worlds. Already they can see things to which we are blind. If they could only tell us, who knows what they would say.’
Yuste’s mother had covered her eyes with a gloved hand.
‘I am afraid,’ she said. ‘We are Wanderers, and can be persecuted. And now this!’
The guru smiled at the children, who were looking solemn.
‘I think your children will be able to look after themselves,’ he said.
Yuste recalled vividly the most recent occasion when she had been troubled by insomnia. It had been the day after the Winter Solstice, when Wanderers were accustomed to celebrate the Candle Feast, one of the most important celebrations of the year. On that night, in the coldest part of the year, Yuste had been unable to sleep. She had been troubled by ruminations about the present and the past, worrying in turn about her mother, her niece and her business, which was being neglected while she and Boris lingered in the countryside. In the end, she had risen from her bed and crept downstairs to the kitchen, opening the stove to rekindle the fire. She put on her slippers, for the quarry tiles on the kitchen floor were cold, and considered walking up to the headland to look at the sea, something she was accustomed to doing when she could not sleep.
It was then that someone had knocked, twice, on the back door. All the hairs stood up on the back of Yuste’s neck, and she shivered. She did not know what time of night it was, but midnight had passed, and people seldom came to the house after sunset. If she had not been a shaman, Yuste would have left the door bolted shut and waited for the visitor – if there were a visitor – to leave. As it was, she padded from the kitchen to the back door and started to unlock it, wondering who had decided to disturb them at this late hour. When the door swung open, her heart skipped a beat, and then she was disappointed; there seemed to be nobody there. She was about to close the door, when something made her step over the threshold and look out.
September 11, 2015
Speculative Fiction Showcase: Like Icarus Taking a Selfie – Observations from a ...
Speculative Fiction Showcase: Like Icarus Taking a Selfie – Observations from a ...: New cover art for the author's novel, The Great Symmetry If you’re an author, perhaps you’ve been here: I had finished my novel ...
New piece from James R. Wells on his first experience of promoting his book.
New piece from James R. Wells on his first experience of promoting his book.
September 7, 2015
Speculative Fiction Showcase: Strength Does Not a Sword-fighter Make by Claire Ryan
Speculative Fiction Showcase: Strength Does Not a Sword-fighter Make by Claire R...: There's a long-running trope in fantasy - whether in books, games, or films - that a big sword wielded by a strong man is the medieval...
Read more of Claire's article over at the Speculative Fiction Showcase!
Read more of Claire's article over at the Speculative Fiction Showcase!
August 16, 2015
What "Living in the Maniototo" means
Me in Granada in 2002
1998: Aged 38: Moved back to Bath. Bath High School reunion
1999: Moved in with my parents. Finished first novel.
Started serious Sasha Doll collecting and met Vicki and Raven
Went to Rome with Gillian
2000: Signed up by literary agency; signed up by publisher
Went to Florence with Gillian
2001: First book published
Went to Venice with Gillian
2002: Second book published
Nephew Tom married Catherine
Went to Granada with Gillian; also to London
2003: Discovered Super Dollfie and joined Den of Angels
Went to Bologna with Gillian
Great-niece Emily born in November
2004: Active member of Den of Angels and BJD community
Friends Tim and Anita got married
June - Mum into hospital with UTI; diagnosed with vascular dementia
2005: Met my future husband; parted company with my publisher
Founder member of The Write Fantastic; went to Eastercon in Hinckley and Worldcon in Glasgow
2006: Married my husband (who also moved in with my parents)
Wedding (in the old house)My friend Peter married his partner François the same year. Sadly, we couldn't go to the wedding.2007: Live-in carers
2008: Ditto
2009: Finished first draft of Malarat in March
Dad died.
Looking after Mum
Started psychotherapy
Great-niece Ruby born in November
2010: Father in Law died of brain tumour in January
Mum died of obstructive bowel cancer in February
House sold and had to move out early in August
Bought cottage and put stuff in storage unit
The old house in July 2010.
The new house September 20102011: Gillian moved back to Bath
2012: Can't remember
2013: Self-published Malarat as an eBook
Sister and brother-in-law moved to Bath
2014: Severe rain caused landslide opposite house in February. Road closed till September.
Landslide opposite our houseMother-in-law had stroke in June. She spent the rest of the year in hospital, more or less. Partly paralysed but still with most of her faculties.
The atrium at the Royal United Hospital, where I have spent too much timeSelf-published new versions of first and second books
August - fell out with L while staying at her house in London
December (aged 55) - diagnosed with endometrial cancer
Sister-in-law caring for mother-in-law at home full time
2015: Hysterectomy in March
Cleared out storage unit in June
Got the all-clear for cancer so far
Mum and Dad in the old house in June 2006
Me in 2014This isn't a comprehensive account, just a summary. My friend Debbie Miller died of secondary breast cancer in 2013. My friend Anita also had breast cancer in 2006 but PG no recurrence.
My mental health has been variable throughout. And by variable, I mean bad at times.
And finally...
Me at Christmas 1979 with Grandma Newman and nephew Tom
